Ships in the Night
by Side Quest Publications
Summary: Revised 1-38. A "history" that my other stories share. Mostly about Doyle, with a few other perspectives thrown into the mix. Conspiracy theories abound! Contains SOME swearing, violence, and prejudice. CONSTRUCTIVE criticism welcome.
1. Just a Feeling

**REVISED**

**I swapped around this and the next arc, so that Van Rook is not aware of Doyle's circumstances until he actually encounters Doyle in chapter 23 on (old readers will know what circumstances and encounter I'm referring to). As a result, I've had to revise these two arcs and other references to them.  
I will still refer to the Avalanche arc (now arc 2) in my notes when I refer to timing.**

**Here we go:  
**

**I don't own the Secret Saturdays. I don't own Leonidas. I ****_do_**** own Vadoma, Aeron, and their side of the family.**

**Vadoma and her family are Gypsies. Welsh Kale, in fact. That...sort of becomes relevant in other stories. The fact that she's a Gypsy is the reason for her name (look it up on 20000 dash names dot com), and also relates to certain prejudices later in this arc. The fact that she's ****_Welsh_**** sort of becomes relevant in Skinwalker. ("Sort of" because I'm using "Welsh" as a substitute for "Celtic," and mixing up mythologies while I'm at it.)  
Unless I change my mind again about ****_why_**** it's relevant. Other than the Skinwalker connection, they could be from whatever clan the reader wants. But they're still Gypsies.  
**

**Alternate Universe? Depends on the reader's perspective. I try, for the most part, to limit my fanfiction to "but the author never said it **_**didn't**_** happen." Obviously, the author has every opportunity to write something later that specifically contradicts my fanfiction, but I try to avoid such contradictions when I can, sometimes even rewriting chapters as new information becomes available. As it is, I've had to rewrite the first couple of chapters to my Pantheon/Sierra story three times now just to figure out Doyle's role in the family--it originally took place before I'd seen Owlman, then immediately after, then....  
There are some chapters, though, in the generic history in which I blatantly rewrite canon history. One such occasion is in the next arc (though I see it more as a cross between "but the author never said" and an actual rewrite).**** Others...remain to be seen.  
And some chapters or stories will blatantly contradict canon, mostly because I'm too stubborn to give up writing them in spite of those contradictions. These include developed stories that practically depend on those (previously unknown) violations, or the one chapter in the Sierra storyline that finally decided me on which ending I wanted to use (and by extension, that particular ending...unless I change my mind again, of course), or the fact that the Sierra story might become Alternate Universe if I don't figure out how to deal with Van Rook's role in War of the Cryptids, or the Mistaken Identity (a definite Alternate Universe...or alternative timeline, at least) or Mulo storylines in their entirety, or.... Anywho.**

**Flashbacks and notes: most of this document started out as just author notes. I wrote up a few "flashbacks" just so that _I'd_ know what characters were alluding to when they...ah, reminisced in the main storylines. This "history" was never intended to work as a single story. It **_**certainly**_** was not intended for one to assume that **_**all**_** of these chapters happened within any given timeline/universe...even though it's posted as such.  
I have a few different and completely unrelated TSS fanfics floating around in my skull—that is, completely unrelated but for the fact that I tend to share elements among them. Consider them as alternate universes (or at least timelines) of each other. Some of these "flashbacks" may be very important to one such fanfic, but have nothing whatsoever to do with another. And so on.  
These flashbacks will proceed in a rather episodic fashion, with a definite timeline—which I still manage to contradict on occasions—but not as a definite story. It'd probably be easiest to think of this document as a collection of short (sometimes very short) stories that proceed in a linear fashion, rather than "a story" in and of itself.  
**

**I might, as the chapters call for it, let readers know if a given chapter doesn't "exist" within the timeframe of a given storyline, or if the timing is changed...and might even say why****.**

**Timing: About 26 years before the start of the show.  
**

* * *

New Job

"I don't like it."

The man tossed his bag on the bed and turned to see his wife in the doorway. "Vadoma?"

She walked over to embrace him. "This job, I don't like it. I just...it feels wrong."

"Vadoma, they're expecting me tomorrow. I've been talking about this job for months, and you've never said a word."

"I know. I'm sorry, Leo, I've tried to keep quiet. I trust you, you know I do, but...." She buried her face in his chest and tried not to cry. "You told me you'd give up this mercenary thing. After that message, after that scare your mentor had—" Now she did start crying.

"Rationalizing, my love?" Leonidas _tsked_ at her. "You know better. You know those feelings of yours are more trustworthy if you _can't_ explain them away so easily."

She chuckled in spite of her grief. Then she sighed. "I don't want to lose you." Her voice was so quiet, he couldn't even call it a whisper.

"Sh, sh, I know. And I did promise. But this job is nothing like that. We'll just be acting as bodyguards, maybe not even that, for some archeology team. There won't be any danger—"

"What if a monster attacks you? Like that beast your mentor faced? He could have been killed, or his children—"

"He is a better fighter than that, more so since he was protecting his children. And he taught _me_." Leonidas shook his head. "There is nothing like that monster where we are going. The only difficulty I will face is being away from _you_ for a month. And when we get back, I promise you, I will retire, and spend the rest of my life with the family." He pulled closer so that he could kiss her.

"'The family' won't like that," she whispered between kisses.

"Uh, actually, I've told them all about it, and they think it's a wonderful idea."

Vadoma pulled back. "They.... Wait, are we talking about the same family here? _My_ family? My family…who remains convinced, that though we be married for centuries, they will have centuries in which to try to run you off the face of the earth. _They_ think that _your_ idea is wonderful. _That_ family?"

Leonidas shrugged. "Well, maybe they finally realized they can't get rid of me?" His expression was innocent. Too innocent.

"Uh-huh. And I suppose the paycheck has _nothing_ to do with it? Hmm?"

"I—well, I.... I might've _mentioned_ that...I don't know, with the pay I was offered, the interest _alone_ would permit us to live far more lavishly than we do now, until our _grandchildren's_ grandchildren are all grown up. But I'm _sure_ that it had _nothing_ to—" He broke off at her grin. "Okay, fine, so it had _everything_ to do with it. Pack of greedy little—Er, I mean.... Why are you looking at me that way? I said nothing. _Honest_!"

"Nothing honest is right," Vadoma muttered and snickered. She raised an eyebrow. "More lavishly? I didn't know there was such a thing."

Leonidas shrugged. "And that's not counting the bonus I get for bringing Aeron."

She sighed. "That's the other thing. Why Aeron? He's not even twelve. What has he to do with being a mercenary?"

"I was nine when I first became a mercenary, love."

"Your childhood was a _little_ bit different than his, Leo." Vadoma held her fingers together, so close that they almost touched. "Only this much."

He chuckled. "Only that much, huh?" Leonidas grabbed his wife's hand and kissed it. It was a long moment before he spoke again. "The job.... This dig is funded by some philanthropist who wants to get children interested in history. Aeron is the whole reason I was offered the job."

"Plus you can sneak in some father-son bonding time, right?"

He flinched and dropped her hand. "I don't know anything about the boy's father. I will not pretend to be someone I'm not, certainly not a man I've never met. And with how close we are in age.... I've accepted that Aeron will never see me as a father." He sighed. "But I would like for him to accept me as family. Even if the rest of your family will not."

Vadoma buried her face in his chest again. She knew it embarrassed him to show his pain, especially when it was the emotional kind. She thought he was wrong to be embarrassed, and she knew she wasn't helping, but she was willing to pretend she hadn't seen what he didn't want her to see.

Leonidas put his hand under her chin and tilted her head back. "Tell me you want me to turn down the job. Tell me you don't want me to go. _Tell_ me to stay, and I will stay."

Vadoma smiled. "I've got you trained that well, do I? Maybe next I should have you sit up and beg? Or lie down and roll over?"

"Woof."

Vadoma laughed. She closed her eyes, just enjoying the feel of his arms around her. Finally she sighed. "I don't want you to go." Leonidas nodded and turned to unpack. Vadoma laid her hand on his arm, and he looked up at her. "I don't want you to go; I want you all to myself, forever and a day. But I won't stop you."

He set the bag back down. "Vadoma?" He reached up to wipe the tears from her eyes, ignoring the tears in his own.

"If you want to go, then go. I won't stop you. If you think this job is a good idea…I trust you." She grinned. "And I promise, I won't let my family badger me into running off with a complete stranger while you're gone."

"They wouldn't dare," Leonidas whispered back. "Not while I have Aeron with me."

—

_The next morning_

It hurt to see her husband wear that mask again. She had never cared much for his work, even on such "tame" jobs as this one.

She knew she wasn't being fair to him; his job was hardly more dangerous than most. It took him into dangerous territory, certainly, but his training gave him an advantage that nobody but his mentor could match. And one of his first lessons was to never put himself or anybody else in danger if he couldn't handle it.

But he always left her wondering if this time would be the last she'd see him. And some days, that feeling was nearly impossible to bear.

But she was determined not to cry as she watched him leave with her son. She bade them good luck and a safe return. It was only after the door closed that she sobbed into her father's arms.

He held her that way until she cried herself out. She wiped at her tears, and laughed about her reaction; she wasn't usually this emotional.

She rubbed at her stomach in an unconscious gesture.

Her father noticed the motion. "So, sweetling, have you told him yet?"

She blinked, and then realized what she was doing. "No, daddy, not yet."

"How come?"

"I thought...well, it's just too soon to know." The man rolled his eyes. Vadoma sighed as she rubbed her stomach again. "They'll be gone for a month; I'll know for sure by then, and when he comes back...then I can surprise him."

Her father chuckled. "You and your games; you're almost as bad as he is, you know that?" He kissed her on the cheek. "If that's really what you want...."

"It is."

* * *

**The thing with Vadoma's "feelings" draws on my own personal beliefs. Somehow, the actual description of those feelings, and of the attempt at rationalizing them, never quite made it into the chapter the way I wanted it (at least not this version; I'm still working on it). Especially not since the timing and the scene have been completely revised. The reason for her feeling no longer exists.  
But this is what I had in mind:  
I feel (no pun intended) that when we have very strong feelings about something and cannot name the source beyond "I have a feeling," those feelings should be heeded. Whereas if we can actually rationalize those feelings (provided we're not going out of our way to do so), then the feelings may not be quite as important.  
For instance, if you've ever seen or read Stephen King's "You Know They've Got a Hell of a Band" (Nightmares and Dreamscapes), the woman's "this place frightens me" (not an exact quote, but I'm not trying) would be something serious. "This place frightens me, it reminds me of a scary story I read" is iffy; it could be serious if you're genre savvy, or it could be an overactive imagination. "This place frightens me, that house reminds me of the gingerbread house in 'Hansel and Gretel'" is one's imagination running away with you. Or it would have been that way had she not gone out of her way to find some explanation.  
And in this chapter, it would've been that Vadoma just has a very bad feeling about this job, and decides that it's because of the message they'd received.**

**Should she have rationalized? What do _you_ think?  
**


	2. Digging for Secrets

**As to the chapter title: pun not intended.  
Or was it? I forget.**

**I don't own the Secret Saturdays. I don't own Leonidas. I don't own a certain someone who shows up in this chapter. I ****_do_**** own Aeron and Sol****é****s.  
I also own whatever random or anonymous persons or things that manage to show up...except when I don't.**

**Episodic, "collection" of short stories, history shared by many stories (but not all of it used by all of those stories—I will point out the differences), not alternate universe, so on and so forth.**

**Anywho:**

* * *

New Job

"So, Mr. Van Rook, do you know who we're meeting?"

Leonidas bristled; though Aeron was not his son, it still rankled him to hear the boy, his wife's son, call him 'Mister' anything. He would almost have preferred that the boy just call him by his first name...and Aeron had told him more than once that that was _exactly_ why he didn't.

"Of course I do, pup, I've done business with them before." He scanned the crowd with some distaste; not very many people here this early in the day, but too many for his liking. The sooner his clients showed up, the better.

"Before you met mom and me, right?" Leonidas blinked and turned to Aeron. He raised an eyebrow in question; the boy couldn't see it through the mask, but seemed to anticipate the reaction. Aeron shrugged. "Just curious."

"Yes, my mentor and I—ah! Come along, boy, and let us get the introductions over with."

"Van Rook, how are you?" the blond woman in the grey trench coat asked.

He bowed. Might as well pretend to be civil. "I am well, Solés, and you?"

"Well enough," she replied. She turned to Aeron. "And who might this handsome young thing be?"

"He is my son, Aeron," Leonidas said with pride. Aeron merely rolled his eyes.

"Son?" The man flanking Solés smiled coldly. "Forgive me for saying so, but you don't look much older than the boy. How is it that he is your son?"

Leonidas felt his face grow warm. Granted, the age difference was obvious, in spite of the mask; they would sooner be brothers than father and son. But the reminder was humiliating, especially from a stranger. "My...my wife's son, from before I met her," he mumbled.

"Oh, yes, forgive me," Solés said. "One of our newest recruits, Epsilon." She gestured vaguely in the man's direction.

—

Leonidas lay back on an outcropping and mused over the work done so far. This had to be one of the strangest jobs he'd accepted. He'd spent the first week meeting the archaeology team, worming his way into conversations, leading them on to extract their secrets without a single one knowing of it.

What he found made him lose all professional interest in the dig. The things these people were finding were educational, but of no other value; even if he were inclined to break his promise to Vadoma, there was nothing here for his clients.

No, museums might want a share of the findings, but even the most eclectic of collectors would not pay him to sift through the dig. Nor was he even here as a fighter. He'd half expected some trouble from the locals, at least, maybe some cultural issues or wild animals, but no.

He was just hired muscle in case a wall collapsed, or something of that nature.

He barely even noticed the kitten curled up on his chest. He automatically moved to pet it, and his hand encountered something strange. He lifted his head up and found a green stone hanging from its collar. He shrugged; one of the scientists' pets, probably. Or one of their children; some kids were strange about decorating their pets.

He glanced into the middle of the dig. At least Aeron seemed to be enjoying himself, and learning a great deal. He could see some of the friendlier scientists chatting at the boy. Their children constantly found excuses to spar with him. The same traits that left them terrified of Leonidas Van Rook had them in awe of Aeron.

All things considered, it wasn't a bad job, even with his promise to Vadoma. It was just strange. His habit of poking around for things for his clients may have been moot, but he'd learned something else at the same time. He could find nothing that should be of interest to the Grey Men. Yet Solés was the one that hired him. Why did they want him here?

As if his thought summoned her, Solés hoisted herself onto Leonidas' outcropping. She shaded her eyes to watch the dig site, a habit he would have thought moot with those dark glasses.

The cat hissed and ran off behind another rock. Leonidas followed it out of curiosity, and was perplexed to realize it had vanished from sight. He shrugged and turned back to the agent.

Solés seemed agitated about something.

"Not going according to plan?" Leonidas asked.

She glanced up at him, then back into the site. "How do you mean?"

"The dig, is it not providing enough research?" He shrugged. "You seem...nervous, perhaps?" He chose not to suggest his real assessment. "Impatient?"

She smirked, but she did not reply.

He gave her another bare glance, his eyes drawn to the object in her hands. "And has the spear given up its secrets?"

She glanced back up at him, then at the spear. She scowled, and refused to reply.

And that did not sit well with Leonidas. Granted, these people were always big on keeping secrets, even when there was no secret to keep. But why would she be unwilling to talk about the spear? He and his mentor were the ones who'd retrieved it for these people. It wasn't as though he wasn't supposed to know it existed.

His mentor had always felt that the employers' motive was the most crucial detail of any job, but even that superior mind had been unable to learn the Grey Men's purpose with the spear. If it had only been research, perhaps it had been innocent enough, but these people....

These people had always been more concerned with results than what it took to get them. The only higher priority was to never betray their secrets.

He shuddered. Why _had_ she hired him for this job?

That Epsilon person approached. Solés grimaced, but jumped off the outcropping to speak with him.

Leonidas overheard their conversation, but the puzzle remained unsolved.

—

"Did you actually want something, Epsilon?" Solés asked.

"You have a call. One of the...ahem..._other_ experiments that you're involved in." Epsilon glanced towards Leonidas with an unreadable expression. "They're ready for further instructions."

"_Finally_," she snarled. "They promised me it would've been set up weeks ago!" She ran in the direction of their office.

One of her people handed her the phone. "It's about time you contacted me," she snarled into the mouthpiece. "What took you people so long?" The person on the other end started to say something, but she cut him off. "No, never mind, I don't want to hear your excuses. Just make sure you get the job done, quickly. Remember where to go?" The man listed off an address, and she confirmed it. "Good. Remember, there are three very important rules in this job. First, do not kill or damage the woman. Second, kill _everyone_ else. Kill her family, kill the servants, kill their pets, kill _everyone_ in that house; if there is even so much as a rat on the property, I want it dead. Kill anyone and everyone that tries to interfere. I don't care how you do it, just get it done. But the woman is to remain alive and..._mostly_ unharmed." The man made a snide remark, and Solés snorted in disgust. "Fine, whatever, just get the job done first, and don't let anyone damage her. Third, _stay_ there and wait for further instructions. Got all that, or do I need to come hold your hand?"

The man repeated her instructions. Solés hung up with a smile.

Her associate handed her a file, and recited the relevant information while she flipped through it.

"Jacob Cheechoo, military, Black Ops, law enforcement," the man said. "Inuit heritage, both parents are Secret Scientists specializing in geology. I believe their team is on Ellesmere Island at the time. His little brother may not be easy to manipulate, but the kid is too young to know for sure."

"Yet the brat is still alive?" Solés raised an eyebrow. "Do we have any use for him?"

"No, Paul has yet to show any value to our research, but our superiors have determined that anything that distracts the parents from their work would be more of a nuisance than he is at this point. We have orders to...overlook their family for the moment."

"And how do we know this Jacob will do the job?"

The man flipped the file to another page. "His specialty in these situations is fighting, not negotiation or 'human relations'; his records show that he'll take out the enemy and leave others to worry about civilians and the like."

"Ah, a good little soldier." Solés chuckled. "Such a pity he won't be around for us to use again. And your men?"

The other agent nodded. "By the time Jacob is finished with those thugs you hired, our people will be in place to deal with him and his associate. It is simply our good fortune that the targets live so far from others; there will be _no_ witnesses."

Solés waited a few hours, then placed another call.

The next step was in motion.

* * *

**(Looks at the paragraphs about the kitten.)  
What the...? Mau? You conniving, trans-dimensional, telepathic, spoiled rotten, fur-faced, little...**_**kitten**_**, what are you doing in this story?  
**_**Strange question. I'm playing. Like usual. You humans can be so entertaining.**_**  
What have I told you about invading my fiction?  
**_**To stick to your originals, and stay out of the fan works...? Please. I go **_**where**_** I want, **_**when**_** I want. Not like **_**you**_** can do anything about it. Pfft.**_**  
"Pfft," yourself.  
Readers, please, I'm sorry, I don't know what she's doing there. She has absolutely nothing to do with this story, I swear.  
How she got there is easy; she can travel between dimensions or universes as easily as you or I might walk from one room to another. I met her some while back, on a trip to Japan of all places, in the home universe of a few characters in my original fiction. I have it on very good authority that she's been spoiled rotten by the Egyptian culture, and thinks all humans ought to worship her.  
**_**Why**_** she's in this story.... Well, she seems to find me especially entertaining. (I have no idea why.) At least she's not like Anzu, though; her biggest fault is that she doesn't understand the concept of "stay out."  
It doesn't help me any that I'm not a cat person.  
**_**Only because you **_**think**_** you're allergic.**_**  
Oh, go chase a rat, already.**

**This next bit is only relevant to those who are interested in my thought process—or the lack thereof—when I write fiction.  
If I say a certain character or item or what-have-you "originally appeared" somewhere, I'm not referring to their original "published" appearance, nor their first appearance in terms of when the story takes place.  
I'm referring to whatever I was working on when I first had the idea to use that character/item/whatever.**

**And on that note:  
Solés "originally" appeared in one of the later arcs in my Sierra/Pantheon/whatever-the-heck-I-call-it storyline. She was not, to my knowledge, affiliated with the group shown here; I'm not 100 percent certain she was even **_**human**_** in that arc, though she looked like a human.  
A hint on the pronunciation of her name: pun not intended, but willingly exploited.**

**And one more note on Solés. I imagined someone that looked kind of like Agent J from the Pokémon Sinnoh episodes. More to the point, someone with the same hairstyle...but with maybe a kind of a straw-ish blond hair—I'm not too certain of how the shades are named, so that might not be too accurate. Anybody know of a character with that hair? Please? It's really bugging me; I **_**know**_** I've seen a cartoon/anime character with that hair, but I cannot think of **_**who**_**!  
Oh, and Solés has dark glasses; you can't even see her eyes. At all. But that has nothing to do with the "where have I seen someone like that before" frustration.**


	3. Intervention

**I don't own the Secret Saturdays. I **_**do**_** own Jacob, Marie, their superiors, and the thugs.**

**A note on fanon: One of the popular theories (shown at times on Secret Saturdays wikia) seems to be that Drew and Doyle's parents were **_**Gypsies**_**. I choose to accept that theory (until Word of God says otherwise...and probably even then out of sheer stubbornness)—although I still make up a lot of stuff on the spot—and it comes up rather frequently in my fan-fiction...particularly when describing some of the things Doyle goes through as a child.  
****Unfortunately, in later chapters, those descriptions usually involve other characters that are prejudiced **_**against**_** Gypsies (and sometimes, derogatory terms to go along with the attitude)....  
****I mention this **_**now**_** only because Doyle is not the only such victim; the prejudice in question begins this very chapter.  
**** So, um, yeah. You have been warned.**

**And speaking of prejudice, there are a few things in this chapter that involve racial slurs. I used one such slur by accident on Jay Stephen's blog. In my defense, I had assumed it was merely an umbrella term for certain cultures, and hadn't known some of them would take offense, and explained as such in an attempt at apology. (Yes, I know. "Ignorance is no excuse," and "never assume.")  
I use it deliberately in this chapter, knowing full well **_**why**_** it might be considered offensive...and attempted to allude to that reason.  
I'll excuse myself by saying that the good guys are on the receiving end of those slurs, and the bad guys (or the "not nice" neutral guys) are the ones giving them, but even so, I don't like using such insults, even to illustrate a character's attitude, and I don't mean to offend anyone.**

**And one more note on offensive concepts. The event that occurs at the end with regard to Jacob's superiors (and an unrelated event in another arc) is **_**not**_** meant to reflect my impression of the military. I grew up in a military family, and I don't believe that they—of any nation—are necessarily like what Jacob has to deal with. I **_**do**_**, however, believe that every group has some people like that.**

**Please don't flame me!**

* * *

New Job

"Hey, Jake! Eskimo boy!"

"_In...u...it_," Jacob managed through his gritted teeth. He made a mental note to upgrade his dental insurance; with Marie for a partner, he'd need it before long. _Or she will, if I lose my temper.... Maybe I should. It'd shut her up, anyway, and she couldn't follow me if I'm discharged...I hope._

"Yeah, whatever, _Eskimo_." She reached past him and snagged part of his lunch while he finished paying for it. She swallowed half his meal before he could even turn around. He snatched the bag from her hands before she could take any more. She grinned, pleased she had irritated him even this much. "Doesn't that translate to something about raw fish?" she asked, looking pointedly at the sushi he'd just bought.

He merely growled at her in response. She had a point, for once, but if he conceded, he'd never hear the end of it. _Not that that'd stop her, anyway._ "Did you actually need something this time, _rookie_, or were you just looking for an excuse to ridicule my heritage...again?"

The wicked grin grew larger. "Got a call. Break-in. Call said the tipster heard gunshots, and screaming. Maybe a hostage crisis?"

Jacob shuddered at the woman's expression; he couldn't imagine how anyone could like the job as much as she did. He was only glad that torture was illegal, or he suspected she'd start finding her own entertainment, instead of letting it find her.

They raced out to their motorcycles, the remains of Jacob's meal forgotten. Marie looked the address up on the GPS and frowned. "But that's off base. That's...outside of our jurisdiction."

Jacob glanced at the screen. "But we are the closest ones," he replied. "And they called _us_, right? Not just 'all cars?'" Marie nodded. They fastened their gear while Jacob continued. "So they think this break-in is big, maybe too big for regular law enforcement."

They fired up the bikes and left the base through a gate most people would find questionable...if anyone else knew it was there. The two of them had been trained for stealth missions and covert operations since they went into the military. This often meant, among other things, taking routes that a car couldn't travel.

It was by such a route that they approached the house without alerting their quarry, though there was nothing for a mile in any direction.

Marie whistled at the size of the place. "These people must have their own zip code...."

"Sightsee _later_, rookie," Jacob muttered, though he frowned at that. _How did the caller hear...?_ He shook his head and decided it didn't matter. He positioned himself outside one of the broken doors and tried to hear inside. He could just hear Marie on the radio, requesting backup.

She joined him a moment later and drew her weapon. "Do we wait?" she whispered.

He shook his head. "Regular law, sure. It'd be suicide to go into the unknown without backup." He jerked his head at the door. "But this is what we're trained for. We get in there, assess the situation, handle it ourselves _if we can_.... And if we can't, then yeah, we wait for backup." Marie grinned, and Jacob shuddered again. "But don't forget, there may be hostages in there. We don't go all trigger happy unless we have no choice, you got that?"

Marie grimaced, but nodded.

They crept through the house, to see what they could find. Jacob felt his stomach turn at the slaughter, and thanked whatever gods were listening that he _hadn't_ managed to eat lunch. Each room they searched only made him feel more ill. He'd seen what happened after a rabid bear had attacked one of the camps back home; that had been tame compared to this. Was anyone still alive in this place...?

A thump and a muffled cry came from directly above him. He raced up the stairs, no longer caring that he gave his presence away to any of the monsters that did this. He vaguely heard Marie struggling to keep up.

He followed the sound of crying and burst into the room. The thug didn't even hear him; he was too busy with....

The color drained from Jacob's face. He grabbed the thug and threw him off the bed and into the wall. When the thug stood and came at him with a knife, Jacob drew back and kicked as hard as he could at the offending organ.

The thug did not rise again. Jacob turned back to the bed to cut the woman from her bonds.

"Jacob, what the hell! The others are getting away...."

"Marie, call an ambulance! This one's still alive!"

—

"What is the matter with you, Jacob? I'd never thought you the sort to cause trouble. Marie, certainly, but you?"

"_What_?"

"You and that woman go on some unauthorized excursion—"

"Unauthorized? You people called _us_—"

But his superiors weren't listening. "—off the base, outside of our jurisdiction, for some petty robbery? We are _guests_ in this country; we let the local police handle minor crimes like this."

"_Petty_!" Jacob never shrieked. No matter how angry he got, he wasn't the type to shriek. "_Minor?!_" His voice was definitely a shriek.

"And then, you storm in here, demanding that we track these people down. Even if it wasn't for the jurisdiction, there's simply no reason to waste resources on something so...insignificant."

"Insignificant? They _murdered_—"

"Gypsies," his superior interrupted. "They killed _vermin_. If I called someone to take care of the rats in my home, would you demand that I be brought to justice? Or the exterminator?" Jacob stared at him, and the man shrugged. "As far as I'm concerned, your 'thugs' did the world a favor."

Jacob felt his jaw drop. _I'm not hearing this. I'm imagining things; I'm dreaming. I _can't_ be hearing this. It just isn't possible__._

"But since you got involved in this mess, did you have anything else to report?"

Jacob clamped his mouth shut. "No, sir."

"Then you are dismissed."

"Sir—"

"_Dismissed_."

Jacob stormed out the door. _Vermin? Minor? Insignificant? What the hell is _wrong_ with them? What difference does it make that the victims were gypsies, they're _people_, and they deserve our protection, same as everyone else!_ He fumed the whole way, only vaguely aware of his surroundings. _Who does he think he is? _Hitler_? Next thing he'll probably want to go out to kill them himself—_

That thought stopped him cold. He hadn't told his superiors everything. He hadn't told them that one of the victims had survived, for which he was suddenly grateful. If they knew he'd saved her, would they actually...?

_I left her with Marie!_ He broke into a run. _Of all the people to watch her, I left her with _Marie_!_

—

"Solés, sir?" The voice on the phone was anxious. "We have...a bit of a problem."

"What is it _now_?" Solés asked.

"The, uh, thugs you hired. Well, we don't know where they are. We're looking, but...."

"What, did you forget the job already?" She made a disgusted noise. "That idiot Cheechoo was supposed to deal with them."

"Well, see, sir, that's the problem. One of the thugs is dead, but Cheechoo.... Him and the woman are missing."

"_What_?!" Solés sat bolt upright. "Missing? How do you mean, _missing_? You were supposed to be in place to deal with him once he finished—"

"He moved...sooner than we anticipated. He seems to have ignored the thugs and gone straight for the woman. He's gone AWOL, as far as his superiors are concerned. We...we managed to track him and the woman down, some. We've got his partner in questioning right now. But it appears that he took the woman and ran." There was a long pause. "Sir? We can still follow him, sir—"

"No," she snarled. "No, obviously you can't. At least not without letting anyone know that he's being followed." Solés thought for a moment. "Concentrate on the house and the thugs. It was a robbery gone wrong; there mustn't be anyone to leak word otherwise."

"And what of him and the woman?"

"I'll handle it," Solés replied. "I know where he's going. I'll take care of him, just as soon as I'm done with this job."

"Of course, sir." The phone clicked off.

Solés put the phone away and retrieved the spear. She and her team stepped out of the helicopter and hiked into the icy mountains.

When she determined they were close enough to the camp, Solés raised the spear....

* * *

**Hey, Solés, don't you just hate it when your intended target proves he's not a machine, and is perfectly capable of acting **_**against**_** past history? Don't you just **_**loathe**_** not being able to predict other people?  
Tough.**

**In regards to Jacob's thoughts at the beginning of this chapter:  
No, he is not a violent person, in spite of his specialty (as mentioned previous chapter) being in combat. He's a nice guy, who just doesn't try to associate with other people. (Sounds familiar....)  
But Marie really is that irritating. And she was being **_**friendly**_**.**

**I probably should've had Jacob's superiors refer to him by rank and last name; that would have been more realistic, I think. But I hadn't worked out what his rank (or theirs) should be, and I thought it would be inconsistent to refer to him by last name and Marie by first...I never picked a last name for her.**

**To one of the reviews I'd received on "Waking Nightmare"....  
I never actually intended to turn the Grey Men into any kind of mafia—not that I'm going out of my way to _avoid_ it—but after looking over some of the things that they're responsible for in my (thus far) "generic" history (the story you're reading now), I realized that there's really no other label for them.  
Eh, whatever. Works for me!**

**And speaking of reviews:  
Please review! Constructive criticism is welcome. I'm only human; there's _always_ room for improvement, and I'd appreciate anything that helps me improve my work!  
Pretty please?**


	4. Secrets Revealed

**I don't own the Secret Saturdays. I don't own Leonidas Van Rook. I don't own the Grey Men (in general.) I do own Vadoma, Aeron, Solés, the bouncer, and the thugs that Van Rook found alive.**

**Episodic, not meant to be Alternate Universe, blah-blah-blah.**

**Anywho:**

**Timing: a month after chapter 6. (He did say they'd be gone for a month, didn't he?)  
**

* * *

New Job

The job may not have been bad, even by his standards, but it still left him uneasy. He was not used to being unable to weed out his employers' secrets, and it troubled him that he hadn't figured out what interest Solés and her people had in that dig.

But he and the boy were nearly home, and Vadoma would not thank him for arriving in such a mood. He tried to get his mind off his paranoia while they flew overhead, so he thought instead of his new paycheck. The actual pay should be wired to one of his many accounts sometime next month. Meanwhile, what would the family want to do with the bonus?

Vadoma would insist on adding to the garden, of course. Her family had some fascination with green, growing things, but Vadoma's interest bordered on obsession.

Many of these plants were imported, and had to be restrained, lest they take over the native wildlife; beyond that, Vadoma preferred to let them grow naturally, without the human perception of order.

Even through his thermal scanner, he could see the beauty of her garden. Here were the saplings they'd planted three years ago; there was the pond, full of the waterweeds she'd imported from Ireland. Inside the house was her prized—

His visor went blank, and he stopped short. Had his scanner malfunctioned? He glanced back at the garden; no, it still detected signs of life, but the house seemed to be a void. He quickly adjusted the sensitivity until he detected even those snakes that snuck in from the gardens.

There were no other signs of life, not even the slightest warmth to suggest something that had recently cooled. According to his scanner, there hadn't been any life in that house, but for the snakes, for more than a week.

Aeron snickered over the radio. "What's up, old man? Didn't know you were the daydreaming sort."

Leonidas shook his head. He flew down into the cover of the trees, and Aeron followed him. "Wait here. Something isn't right."

To his surprise, Aeron actually obeyed him. Leonidas crept towards the house; though the scanner indicated there was nobody about, he'd prefer not to take that chance.

Several possibilities flashed through his mind.

There could be a barrier, something to prevent him from detecting their life-signs. Why, he couldn't imagine, though it was possible.

But the snakes showed up.

The family could be waiting, somewhere, to surprise him.

But Vadoma knew he didn't like surprises; the last thing he wanted was for his training to take over in the middle of something so completely innocent. And anyhow, where could they be?

They could be....

He shuddered and refused to think of that possibility. He would not even consider it unless he found evidence he could not ignore.

He reached the house, and found that the windows had been smashed in and the doors torn off the hinges.

He stepped inside and fumbled for a light switch.

He stared at the blood covering the wall.

He ran to the nearest room, one of the servants' quarters, and stared at the destruction within. He checked every room.

He found the evidence that he could not ignore.

Here was his father-in-law. There one of Vadoma's sisters. Here was their oldest servant. There the maid whose previous employer had kicked her out after getting her with child. In this other room was her child. His mind kept track of the slaughter, independent of conscious thought.

They were all dead. The whole family, the servants and _their_ families, pets, everything and everyone...was dead. They'd been slaughtered like animals....

_No, not like animals_, some detached part of his mind corrected. _Animals are given more respect than this__._ The house may as well have been a war zone; it was the sort of carnage that many in his profession were wrongfully accused of perpetrating.

That detached part of his mind noticed that someone had cleaned up recently—things and bodies had clearly been moved around after the massacre—but no part of his brain could fathom a reason for it.

He continued to search the house, and finally ended at his and Vadoma's bedroom. Hers was the only body he hadn't found.

—

He left Aeron with an old couple, the next street over. He instructed Aeron to contact his mentor's family, and to seek them out if Leonidas did not return. He didn't want to trust anyone right now, but there was no help for it. He simply could not bring the boy with him on this hunt.

Once he'd gotten set up a few years back, Leonidas had immediately begun worming his way into Russia's criminal element. He'd never told his mentor about these people; the man was a gentler sort, and would have been heartbroken to know of his protégé's secret side. Leonidas certainly would not have involved his family.

He'd hoped never to truly involve himself with these people, but there was no longer any choice.

It took the remainder of the year and the better part of the next before his hunt turned up any prey.

—

"The man is absolutely terrified," the bouncer said as he led Leonidas through another tunnel. "He says that the people in his gang have been disappearing every day, and he thinks someone is trying to kill them all off."

"I couldn't possibly imagine _why_," Leonidas snarled.

The bouncer paused and looked at him. "It isn't you they're afraid of," he said, and was silent for the rest of the trip.

Even that remark was not enough to cut through Leonidas' anger; he held his temper in check with just a thin shred of reason, with the knowledge that revenge would not help him find his wife.

The bouncer brought Leonidas into a secret storehouse. Such places were normally full of drugs, or weapons, or money, or the loot from whatever other crimes these people chose to dip their hands into. This night it was empty, but for a single man and what few garments he slept in.

He stunk of one who hadn't bathed in months, his clothes were filthier than he and couldn't even be called rags, and he looked three-quarters starved. Clearly, mortal terror was not very good for his health.

"Hey, mongrel!" the bouncer called out. "Got a visitor for you."

The pathetic creature glanced up at the call and cringed. "Ha—have you come...to k—kill me?" he forced between chattering teeth.

"That all depends on how you answer my questions," Leonidas growled at him. The bouncer got food for both of them, then left Leonidas to deal with this on his own.

The first thing Leonidas did was ask questions to ensure that this man was one of those he was looking for.

He was.

The...creature told Leonidas all about the job he and his gang had taken. His obsession with the details of the slaughter suggested one who had once taken pleasure in causing pain. His attitude suggested that now he was mortally terrified of meeting the same fate.

When he told of how they had tied the one woman to a bed, and had taken turns with her, Leonidas wanted to tear the man apart on the spot. It was only the reminder that he didn't know where Vadoma was that forced him to stay seated.

Leonidas tried to find out what had become of the woman; he took care not to reveal his anger or the reason for it. But the monster before him didn't know. He explained they'd had orders to stay put when they finished and wait for further instructions. They quickly chose to ignore that order; they'd expected the law might try to interfere, but not some Black Ops assassin!

Running away, clearly, had not helped them any, as this creature's gang found themselves targeted by the very people that had hired them. This monster though he might be the only one still alive.

Leonidas thought this over; the monster didn't know any more about Vadoma's fate than Leonidas had. That remark about the military intervention could be useful, but he wasn't certain what to make of it.

But maybe....

"You said you were hired to kill these people," Leonidas said, "but you never told me who hired you."

The monster looked suspiciously at Leonidas. He shook his head. "Uh-uh. You don't tattle on these people. Worst thing you could do is betray their secrets."

That remark sent a chill down Leonidas' back. _Betray their secrets...?_ He tried to shake it off. Many people made a big deal about keeping secrets.

He smiled. "Seems to me they want to kill you, anyway. If you tell me who it is, I could ensure that they will not harm you." He shrugged. "If you keep quiet...they'll find you soon enough."

The monster's eyes went wide. He glanced around to see if anyone was listening. He leaned close.

He didn't actually know much about these people, didn't know names or anything, but he'd managed to get a look at them when his gang first accepted the job.

They were all these weirdoes wearing grey trench coats. He described a few of them...and Leonidas recognized the descriptions.

Leonidas was glad that the mask hid his expression. The questioning would not have gone so well had the monster seen his shock.

_Solés...and her people? _They_ ordered my family slaughtered?_ Had that whole job at the dig site...just been to get him out of the way...for _this_?

It took him a moment to realize the monster was still talking to him. "Hey, uh, Mr. mercenary, why would you want to protect me, anyway? I mean, not that I'm complaining, or anything, but I can't pay you. What do you get out of it?"

Leonidas started laughing hysterically. "When did I say I would _protect_ you? Keep them from harming you, yes, but _protect_ you?"

The monster looked at Leonidas like the mercenary had lost his mind. Maybe he had. "So...why did you ask me...?"

Leonidas drew his knife; this monster knew nothing else of use. "To avenge my family." The knife plunged down....

—

Leonidas Van Rook had never before been known for being vindictive, but the corpse was arranged so as to leave no doubt that he was sending a message...and no doubt who that message was for.

He continued his hunt and found three more thugs associated with that slaughter; they didn't know any more than the first. He dealt with them in the same manner.

But in all that searching, he never did learn Vadoma's fate. She had felt bad about that job; she hadn't wanted him to take it, but he'd taken it. He'd assumed, as had she, that she was afraid of losing _him_. Never had he imagined that he could ever lose her.

He returned home to his family's graves. He apologized to them for breaking his promise to Vadoma, but explained that he had to find out what had happened to her. He had to find some way to avenge the rest of them. Only then could their spirits truly be at rest, or so he told himself.

He imagined her spirit was there beside him; he felt like she might forgive him for wearing the mask again.

He donned the gear of a mercenary again, and left to continue his hunt.

* * *

**Thus ends the "New Job" arc. We'll leave Leonidas (and Aeron) on his own for a while; in the next chapter, and for a while yet, we'll look in on Doyle and see how he's faring.**

**By the way, because of perspective issues, calling the mercenary "Leonidas"—be it narrative, dialogue, or author notes—worked well enough for my purposes.  
However, due to perspective issues, I predict that, with occasional exceptions, he will be referred to as "Van Rook" from here on out. Heed my warning.**


	5. Picking up the Pieces

**This arc (five chapters) and the one before were previously reversed. I swapped them ****so that Van Rook is not aware of Doyle's circumstances until he actually encounters Doyle in chapter 23 on (old readers will know what circumstances and encounter I'm referring to). As a result, I've had to revise these two arcs and other references to them.  
I will still refer to the Avalanche arc in my notes when I refer to timing.  
At least my only reviews to the first two arcs consist of "please update" at the time of this writing. So one less thing to cause confusion.  
**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Doyle or Drew. I don't own their parents.**

**Episodic, "collection" of short stories, history shared by many stories (but not all of it used by all of those stories—I may occasionally point out the differences), not meant to be alternate universe, so on and so forth.**

**Timing: maybe a few hours after the end of chapter...3. This and the next four chapters make the only arc (thus far, as of 36 posted chapters and a 37th in progress) that takes place at the same time as any other.  
**

**

* * *

**

Avalanche!

After what felt like hours, Jonathon finally dug himself free. He paused only to catch his breath, and immediately set the spell to locate his family.

And shrieked, as some force beyond his magic fed on that spell and tore through him.

He struggled to his feet again, panting and wild-eyed. _That's never happened before. What...?_

He shook his head. He shuddered, gritted his teeth, and tried the spell again.

The force tore through him again, and he trembled with the effort of holding against it.

_Just a...little more...._ He saw what he needed, and cut off the spell before it could drain him further.

It pained him to leave the children any longer, but after that spell, he'd need Anna's help just to stay on his feet. And she was closest; he could only hope he had strength enough to reach her.

He staggered to the remains of the campsite and stopped in front of their tent. He began to dig, and prayed to every god he could think of, and a few that he wasn't so sure about, that he had judged right. The spell had never failed him before, but there could always be a first....

It took all of his control not to sob with relief as he pulled his wife from the wreckage.

She was unconscious and freezing, but that could easily be taken care of.... Easily, that is, but for the force that tore through him with every spell. He braced himself against it, but the effort still left him collapsed and gasping for air.

"Jo–Jon–athon?" Anna's teeth chattered. She'd traveled all over the world with him, but she didn't remember ever being _this_ cold. "Jonathon?" She took his hand, closed her eyes, and concentrated....

And he jerked his hand away and tried to massage some feeling back into it. It felt like he'd been hit by lightning.

He forced a grin to his face; this was why they were great partners. She didn't have the training to use his spells, but she'd learned to channel power into him from anywhere...even the storm's fury.

"Jonathon...what's happened? I thought...." Anna swallowed, and took another breath. "You said the weather would be good. You said you could feel it. And that monster, were did that come from? Why didn't you feel _that_? Why did it attack? Why did it go after _Doyle_?" She shuddered, remembering exactly how it had looked at her son. Knowing how animals typically behaved around their children made that monster, that look, only seem more monstrous. "You said animals...."

Jonathon shook his head. "The storm...not natural." He shivered; whether from fear or just the cold, he wasn't certain. "I can feel it, sucking at me, feeding on my every spell. When you...when you sent the power to me, I could _taste_ it. This storm was _made_, Anna. It isn't natural, and I think it's why I didn't feel that creature." He took a deep breath before telling her the most frightening part. "The storm feels like a small magic—"

"Small? _This_?"

"—a small magic...that's gone out of control.... And...and the children...are in the middle of it."

Anna stared up at him; her expression flickered as shock gave way to pure terror. "The...." She frowned. "Where? Where are they?"

The two struggled to help each other to their feet. "The storm...swept them away." He considered trying the compass spell again, and immediately rejected the notion. He'd be of no use if the storm drained him again, and anyway, he still remembered where it had pointed. "Doyle...is off to the south...that way." He pointed towards the back of their camp. "Drew went a little more to the east. They...they're not far...."

Anna snorted. "'Not far'. In this? Isn't that just a _little_ vague? "

Jonathon grimaced and nodded. "If you...if you look for Doyle, and I get Drew, we should all have strength enough to...to meet back here, before nightfall.... As long as I don't need to use another spell...."

"If we...? You want to split up?! Jonathon, you want to split up in _this_? With that monster roaming around? No! We need to figure out a way to find them..._together_. I don't think any of us should be alone in this! We need—"

"It will only take longer to find both." Jonathon held up a hand. "And if we argue about it, they'll be alone for that much longer."

Anna's shoulders slumped. "All right," she whispered. "Just make sure the two of you make it back here safely, all right?"

"I plan on it." Jonathon kissed Anna's forehead. "If you need any help, remember the rule...."

"Watch for animals behaving strangely," Anna finished.


	6. New Friend

**Once again: Don't own Doyle, Drew, or their parents. Jay Stephens owns all of them.  
I do own the animals that are behaving strangely.**

**Not _intended_ to be Alternate Universe, episodic, etc.**

**The spotted cat that shows up here (and later chapters) is also mentioned in the Sierra story (which has yet to receive an actual name, or even exist outside of vague notes). How it appears in that story...will be mentioned whenever I get around to actually writing that story.  
**

* * *

Avalanche!

Jonathon kissed Anna's forehead. "If you need any help, remember the rule...."

"Watch for animals behaving strangely," Anna finished. She turned her back on him and peered in the direction he'd indicated. It hurt to walk away from him, but every second before they found their children again would hurt worse. With an effort of pure willpower, she set out to find their son.

The storm proved stronger than her willpower. She'd traveled what must have been hours, even days. She couldn't see more than a few feet around, though in good weather the campsite would still have been in view. The cold sucked at her strength. It was so tempting to just lie down and rest....

"Yowp!" Anna jumped, suddenly wide-awake. She clutched at her leg and stared at the bloody scratches. She looked around frantically, fearing the monster had found her, and found herself facing a great spotted cat, gray and white with a mane of turquoise. She eased back onto the ground, and jumped up again when the creature gave her another set of scratches.

The creature wandered off just a few feet, sat down, and watched her with a bored expression.

Its feet never touched the ground.

Anna shook herself and tried to ignore the predator. But her legs seemed to move with a will of their own...straight towards the cat.

Anna struggled with her strangely disobedient body, but found herself standing next to the cat. The creature shook itself, wandered off another few feet, and waited again. The process repeated itself several times.

_Where is...what is it doing? It wants me to follow, but why?_ Anna shook with fear. The thing didn't want her for a meal...she hoped. Cats didn't hunt like this, not even apparently magical ones, so why was it behaving so....

_Strangely...?_ She shook herself again. "Animals...behave strangely around our children."

The creature's bored expression did not change, but she had the sense that it smiled at her. The odd compulsion faded, unneeded. The fear remained, but she followed the creature without hesitation.

She did not know how long or far she walked; her weariness seemed to fall with every step. And then the creature ran off to greet....

_Doyle!_ For one crucial moment, Anna forgot the nature of her guide and rushed to greet her son....

And found herself facing a mouthful of fangs. Anna dropped to the ground, fearing she would die after all.

But the creature did not strike, and Anna cautiously lifted her head. The creature rubbed its forehead against Doyle's, treating him as it might treat one of its own cubs.

Anna tried to stand, and the creature looked up and snarled at her. Anna froze in a half-crouch. The creature positioned itself between Anna and her son.

"Momma?" Doyle was puzzled. Why was momma acting like that? The 'pard wasn't going to hurt anyone, so why was momma afraid of it?

Anna jumped at Doyle's voice, but she forgot her fear enough to speak. "D–Doyle, sweetie? C–could you...tell...your new friend...that I...that I'm not...going...to hurt you?"

Doyle blinked again, and then he finally understood. "'S'okay, 'pard. She's _momma_."

The creature stared at him, clearly bewildered. It stalked over to Anna and stood so its face was only an inch away from hers. Anna trembled, torn between survival and maternal instincts.

The creature took a deep breath, gave Doyle another look of astonishment, and ran off. Anna released the breath she'd been holding.

"_Doyle_," Anna breathed. She gathered her son in her arms, and when she thought she could stand without shaking, she began the long walk back to the campsite.

"Bye, 'pard," Doyle called and waved over Anna's shoulder.

_When this is all over_, Anna thought, _we're going to have to teach you the difference between a lion and a leopard._

"Momma?"

"Hmm, baby?"

"Where's daddy an' Drew?"

"Drew's...a little farther away than we thought. Daddy went out to get her. We're supposed to meet them back at the camp."

"Oh. 'S'okay, then." Doyle squirmed into a more comfortable position, yawned and fell asleep.

"'Watch for animals behaving strangely.'" Anna shivered. "How can your father be so casual about _that_?" she whispered. "Or you kids?" It wasn't like Jonathon had grown up around magic, not with _his_ tyrant of a father. But this animal thing....

The only time she'd ever seen Jonathon get upset was with that Beast a few months back...and that had been a man-eater. That monster had been all the argument Jonathon had needed; old Blackwell had backed down without a fight, something Anna had thought impossible. They'd immediately set out to find some mythical Ghost Clan to train the children..._with_ old Blackwell's blessing.

She came upon a familiar landmark and breathed a sigh of relief. The camp shouldn't be too much further. She might make it back before dark, after all.

Doyle whimpered. "What's wrong?" Anna stopped for a moment. "Doyle, baby, what's the matter?"

"Bad hunners. 'Pard says bad hunners."

"The...the leopard says bad...hunters?" Anna interpreted. She forced herself not to look for the creature. "Don't worry, baby, hunters aren't going to want _us_." She smiled at him. "And if they're _bad_ hunters, then the...the leopard won't have to worry about them, either." She took another step.

Doyle shook his head and tried to squirm free. "No!" he screamed. "_Bad_ hunners! Bad hunners, bad _mans_!"

"Doy— Doyle, wait! Hold still.... Doyle, I don't understand...!" Anna fought to keep from dropping her son, and had no attention to spare to her surroundings.

A grey shadow approached that she thought was the cat....

Something heavy collided with the back of her head....

She heard Doyle scream....

Then she knew nothing.

* * *

**Um, yeah, Doyle wasn't talking about skill when he screamed about the "bad hunners." Too bad Anna didn't realize that in time.**

**First one to guess where I got "bad mans" from gets a fifty points and a virtual cookie. It used to be the chance to name one of my minor characters, but since pretty much all the ones I wanted to name this way now _have_ names....  
**

**What are the points good for, you ask? Um...bragging rights?**

**Need a hint? Fine. The author's name is Mercedes Lackey. Now _you've_ got to guess the character and book. (Chapter gets another fifty points, and another cookie. I'd say page number, but editions might be different. Chapter will be "close enough.")  
**

**On the spotted cat/leopard/creature/cat/what-have-you.  
The original version of this document had a perfectly mundane **_**snow leopard**_** playing the role of Doyle's protector. I wanted to keep the leopard, for one reason, and one reason only.  
And I'm not going to tell you what it is. Guess; c'mon, **_**guess**_**. Pretty please?  
(I just want to know if anyone else had the same impression, is all.... But I **_**don't**_** want to influence anyone's impressions by revealing what mine was.)  
Tell you what, though: I'll give you a virtual cookie for guessing, and two more for guessing _right_.  
Anywho. Then I found out about some snow lion of Tibetan mythology (white with a turquoise mane), that I thought might be appropriate given the location. Not to mention a bit of unintentional metaphorical foreshadowing.  
So I combined the details of each, and **_**occasionally**_** referred to it as a leopard (in spite of the mane).**


	7. Deal with the Devil?

**Copyrights: I don't own Drew, Doyle, or their parents. I...technically don't own the birdman; he owns himself. Or the Sumerians do, depending on how you want to look at it.**

**Author intent: The story is not meant to be Alternate Universe, though it depends on the readers' perspective whether or not it turns out that way.  
The "story" is episodic in nature.  
You know the drill. If you don't, please see my over-long author note at the beginning of chapter 1.**

**Timing: About half an hour or so following chapter 5. In spite of Anna's internal dialogue in chapter 6; she didn't actually know how much time had passed.  
**

_**Language alert!**_**  
This chapter contains a small amount of swearing—exactly two words, if I recall correctly. I, like many authors on this site, have a particular aversion to swearing. I can't tell you how bad a story seems when an author overuses swear words. You see it often enough on TV, when a character's dialogue is so peppered with swearing that you start to wonder if they have Turret's syndrome. To me, such overuse suggests a lack of imagination on the author's part; it looks like they are unable to explain the situation (such as a description of a "rough" character) without resorting to vulgar language.  
I realize that that isn't necessarily **_**true**_** of every writer that uses a lot of swearing; it just **_**looks**_** that way sometimes.  
**_**However**_**, if I were to use the "brevity is the soul of wit" excuse—which, ironically, I rarely find elsewhere in my writing—there **_**are**_** times when a well-chosen swear word, or a few, is full of so much meaning that it could take pages to describe without it. For example, one character is surprised and/or angered by a certain turn of events, and responds with a certain curse word or other. In addition to the actual chosen word, and the situation that prompts it, how the word is said—shouted, muttered, spoken by itself or in describing something else—explains so much about the character's feelings about the situation, an explanation that could border on ridiculous if the author actually tried to describe it. And if the character (or the author/narrator) does not normally swear, so much more meaning is to be had in such a small word.  
In short, I try to avoid swearing in my fiction, but I will use such words now and again if I deem them appropriate to the situation at hand. Whether I am successful in that venture is a matter of perspective.  
You have been warned.**

* * *

Avalanche!

Jonathon had not made much progress. He thought it had only been half an hour since he'd set out, but with this storm messing up his spells, why not his sense of time?

Drew was still very far away. He was desperate enough to try the compass spell again....

A wave of dizziness dropped him to his knees. It took precious minutes before the sensation passed. _What the hell—?_ Was it the storm? He hadn't even cast the spell!

He shook his head. No. An alarm had triggered. Someone had gotten hurt. Who...?

_Anna!_ Anna was hurt, hurt _badly_, and Doyle was scared. He had to help them...but...but he hadn't found Drew. He couldn't just _leave_ his daughter, but...but his wife...his son....

Tears froze on his face. How could he consider leaving _any_ of them, even for a moment? How could he possibly decide who to save? There _had_ to be a way!

He opened his mind to call for help, any kind of help.

He received the last sort of answer he could have expected...or wanted.

"Such silly, stubborn things you mortals are," the birdman said. "You wander where you don't belong, and then you whine to the gods to protect you from your own mistakes." The creature seemed to grin. "Well, since I'm here, I may as well do my part. Mortals are much more entertaining than my brethren, anyhow." He generated a wave of fire that warmed Jonathon's body yet chilled his heart.

Jonathon's jaw dropped. "_Anzu_?" What was he doing here? This was not his land; they were not his people. Why would _he_...? _How_ could he...?

"Why shouldn't I take part?" the birdman replied, though the questions had not been spoken. "One of your ancestors helped to entomb my brother, though the stage has been set to release him; when some fool mortal thinks to control him, _both_ your children will become involved in the ensuing war. Am I wrong to take an interest?"

Jonathon shivered; it had nothing to do with the cold. Some would call Anzu a trickster, and he had not specified _which_ brother had been entombed. Was he angry or glad? Was he here to give a reward...or seek revenge? And how quickly would he change his mind...?

"Enough questions, mortal," Anzu snapped. Jonathon cringed. "Return to your mate while you still can. I will keep your daughter safe...by mortal standards."

Jonathon's head shot up and he stared at the god. "What...what cost?" he forced himself to ask.

The god snorted. "My, aren't we the mercenary? I offer to help you, and all you can wonder at is cost."

"I know the legends, Anzu," Jonathon snarled. "The gods are well known for exacting _some_ cost when they give aid. And—"

"And well we should. Else we'd have mortals whining at us with every little problem that they're too lazy to solve for themselves, or that they're stupid enough to wander where they don't belong...."

"—_and_ you're a trickster. _Your_ costs are likely greater even than the help you would give...."

"Greater than your daughter's life? Are you quite certain of that, mortal?"

Jonathon froze. Anzu had promised to protect Drew. He'd even promised that protection by mortal terms, so Jonathon shouldn't have to worry—much—about the god's interpretation. No cost could be greater than that...! Or could it? He was dealing with a god, a trickster...

Anzu made a sound in his throat. "I want your son, mortal."

"My...what? _No_! No, I can't promise that! I can't give him to you; he's not mine to _give_!"

Anzu raised an eyebrow. "Your son is...not yours?"

"You _know_ what I mean, Anzu! I can't just let you..." Tears threatened to choke off his words. "...let you kill my son, not even to save my daughter! I don't have the right to make that choice; it isn't _my_ choice to make!"

"'Kill?'" The god laughed at him. "Who said anything about _killing_ him? I want his life, yes, but I want him _alive_. He wouldn't be nearly as entertaining if he were dead."

_Entertaining?_ Jonathon shuddered. "I can't _give_ him to you," he repeated.

"Not even to save your daughter; yes, I know. I suppose he'll be terribly disappointed, though. I'd hate to see the look on his face, when he learns you had one chance to protect his sister and you just left her to die."

Jonathon made a rude sound. He might have let a fellow mortal guilt him into that trap; he refused to be manipulated that way by a _god_. "I'd hate to see the look on _Drew's_ face if she learned I sacrificed her brother just to save her." Anzu chuckled. "Not that I could _call_ it a sacrifice, of course; it isn't _my_ decision to make!"

"You mortals are such hypocrites," Anzu said with a sneer. "You had no problems stealing your mate away from her father. You didn't mind buying that apprentice of yours from his parents. But I ask for _your_ son, and _I'm_ making horrible demands?"

_That's not the same, and you know it__._ Jonathon trembled. He'd promised himself he'd never use that excuse; even _thinking_ it left a nasty taste in his mouth. "They _chose_—"

"Stubborn as a mortal...or as a god," Anzu sighed, though he did not bother to hide his amusement. "Very well. You return to your mate and son. I will protect your daughter from the storm, after which I will leave her alone, unless I am called upon in her favor. She doesn't interest me as does your son, so I've no reason to bother with her. I will act as your son's guardian, to ensure that he is prepared for the role he must play in the war with my brother. And when he is ready to make that decision, I will offer _him_ the choice to serve me. The decision will be his alone. Should he refuse, I will exact no penalties."

Jonathon tried to suppress another shudder. It _sounded_ good; it sounded _too_ good.

And he was dealing with a trickster god.

Anzu heard that thought and snickered. "The only cost is that you will not interfere. You or your mate. Not with me, and not with his choice."

Jonathon gritted his teeth and resisted the urge to snarl again. He wanted to refuse, but what other choice was there? Abandon his daughter? Or abandon his wife and son? Or....

_Take the damn deal, already_. Jonathon sighed. Whatever trick the god had up his sleeve, Jonathon still couldn't see how it was worse than the alternative. _Sorry, kids. Whatever happens...we'll just have to deal with it when it happens._ He finally nodded. He refused to look up as the god flew away.

"And when I find out who caused this storm," he growled, "I'm going to bash his head in and seal off the spell with his own blood. Even if it's Anzu himself."

He staggered his way back to the campsite.

* * *

**Wonder what Anzu has in mind for Doyle? I don't know, but I think that explains why I tend to be so mean to him, despite the fact that I'm a total fan-girl.  
I'd come to the conclusion that one of my muses was a sadistic witch with a goddess complex—and please note, the word I had in mind was not "witch." If I'd said the word I had in mind, I would've insulted canines everywhere, and since I'm a wolf-nut....  
Anywho....I'd come to the conclusion that one of my muses is a sadistic witch with a goddess complex, but seeing as I'm dealing with an **_**actual**_** god with a sadistic sense of humor...who knows?**

**Thought process:  
Anzu "first" appeared in the Skinwalker storyline...in Ireland of all places. Why, you'll find out when you read the relevant chapters. Suffice to say it's based on one of my many "theories" regarding the presence of gods in the mortal world. Theories that exist in my fan-fiction _and_ my original stories.  
**


	8. New Enemies

**Copyrights: I don't own the Secret Saturdays. I don't own Doyle, Drew, or their parents. I don't own the weapon that shows up later this chapter. I don't own the particular group of unnamed individuals that shows up this chapter.  
I **_**do**_** own Solés...though I really wish I didn't. Though I don't own the group of unnamed individuals, I do own the individuals. Make sense?**

**Uh, this history is not meant to be an "alternate universe," though readers decide what it **_**is**_**. Contradictions between this and official canon will occur, despite my best efforts—and sometime because I'm too stubborn to change a story....  
Proceeds in episodic fashion, etc., etc.**

**And finally...the next chapter.**

**Timing: roughly the same time as chapter 7. Maybe about ten, fifteen minutes after that one started.  
**

* * *

Avalanche!

"_—ake?—ness—ing up?—awake?_ ....Are you awake?"

Anna opened her eyes a crack, groaned, and squeezed them shut again. The light and sound conspired to pierce her brain, turning her throbbing skull into blinding pain.

The voice turned away. "Sir, I mean, ma'am, I mean...." The man's voice was met with a wordless growl. "She seems to be awake."

Anna realized that the pounding was footsteps. She opened her eyes again, but all she could see was grey texture.

"How good of you to join us." It was a woman's voice. Then the voice faded, as though the woman turned away. "If you please?"

Anna didn't have time to wonder who the woman was talking to. Someone, or a couple of someones, yanked her into a sitting position and twisted her arms behind her.

The throbbing in her skull intensified at the sudden change in position. Anna felt the bile rise in her throat. She tried not to gasp at the pain.

A figure crouched directly in front of her. At first, she could only see a blur of grey with a line of black somewhere near the top. She blinked a few times, and the image resolved itself into a woman in a grey trench coat and dark glasses.

The pain eventually subsided enough for Anna to speak. "Who...who are you?" she whispered. She opened her eyes a fraction more, all that she could manage through the pain.

"Agent Solés," the woman replied, followed by a long string of syllables, addressing Anna by her full name.

Anna was impressed in spite of herself. She hadn't known anyone outside her country could pronounce it; even Jonathon had given up after the third try. "How...how do you...know my name?"

"Your father told us," the woman, Solés, answered. "He was quite eager to give us any information that could lead us to you."

"My...my father?" Anna sat up a little straighter, suddenly afraid. "My father...sent you to find me?" The man had never liked Jonathon, and his rage could not have cooled, even though a decade and more had passed. If he'd learned of their relationship....

Solés shook her head. "No, but he did ask us to look out for you, once he learned we were seeking...how did he put it? Oh, yes. 'The vermin that stole his daughter.'" The woman smiled. "Speaking of the vermin, where is Jonathon Blackwell?"

Anna cringed. "Where's my _son_?"

"The boy is fine," Solés replied. "Frightened, but unhurt...for the moment. Where is your husband? And the girl?"

Anna shook her head. "I don't...I don't know. This monster...and the storm...."

Solés made a gesture to one of her people.

Within seconds, Doyle started to shriek. "_Doyle!_" Anna tried to rise to her feet. The person or persons behind her pinned her to the ground. She couldn't even turn to see Doyle. "_Give me my son_!" Anna screamed at them.

Solés grabbed Anna by the hair and jerked her head up, forcing her to look at the agent. Try as she might, Anna could not look away.

Anna whimpered.

"You are not among your people, _princess_," Solés whispered. "You are not among your husband's people. You do not give orders here. You answer to me and to me only."

"Please," Anna sobbed. "Please, stop. They're _hurting_ him...!"

"And they will continue to hurt him, if you do not tell me what I want," Solés replied. "Oh, don't look at me like that. They won't do anything _permanent_. That would be a waste. But the pain will stop when I say it does, is that understood?" Anna nodded. "Now, I'll ask you again. Where are your husband and daughter?"

Anna sobbed. "The storm...swept Drew away. Jonathon's looking for her."

"Where?"

"I don't know," Anna whispered. Solés gestured, and Anna heard Doyle screaming again. "Please, I _swear_ I don't know! I couldn't even have found Doyle, had Jonathon not told me where to look!"

"So. Why are you here?"

Anna stared at her. Why was the agent asking all of these questions? "Jon...Jonathon said the...he said the children needed training. Some clan he remembered from...from his childhood."

"Training for what?"

"I _don't know_! Some tradition, probably. How should I know?" Doyle's screams got louder, and Anna cringed. "They're Romani...Gypsy...I'm an outsider! Though I'm his wife, I'm still an outsider. They don't tell their secrets to outsiders!"

Solés appeared to think about that. Then the agent smiled. "You're lying." Anna shook her head and tried to shrink away. "Yes, you are. Something happened, you _know_ what happened. You know what training your husband has in mind. You're lying to me, and that is not wise. People get hurt when they lie." The agent released Anna for the moment, and started digging around out of Anna's sight.

"I don't care what you do to me," Anna cried. "Kill me, send me back to my father, sacrifice me to the gods, I _don't care_. Just, please, leave my family alone!"

Solés laughed. "See, that's kind of the problem. Your children are what we really want. Your husband would have been valuable as a child; he may still be useful. But you...."

Solés came back out where Anna could see her, brandishing the spear she'd retrieved.

Anna cringed. She recognized that spear. She remembered the people that had hired Jonathon and Leonidas to retrieve it.

"_You_, highness, are completely irrelevant." The agent tossed the spear to one of her people. "Kill her. Make it look like an accident. Make it look like the storm."

The man who'd caught the spear stared at her. "But...but...but sir, uh, ma'am, uh, sir—"

Solés made a disgusted noise. "'Sir' or 'ma'am.' Not both. Now pick one and _stick_ with it!"

"Yes, uh...um...sir." The man still didn't seem to be eager to follow his orders.

"Your objections?"

"Sir...the...that is...." The man cleared his throat. "Our orders are specifically not to jeopardize the research. We aren't supposed to kill the parents until we've got the kids."

"True, true." Solés nodded. "But part of our research is to learn the limits of that thing. We know it can whip up these storms in an environment already conducive to such weather. We know it can make ice cubes in a desert. What _I_ would like to know is, just how controlled can that thing be?" Solés shrugged. "If our superiors complain, you can tell them I told you exactly that. Other than that, the woman will have no influence on our research."

"Ah. That's all right, then. Yes, uh, sir."

The man reached out with the spear and just scratched Anna on the neck. She tried to pull away as the spear's power flowed into her, but it was too late. Her blood turned to ice, and she froze from the inside out.

Solés whistled. She stared at the men behind Anna. They hadn't released the woman in time and had frozen just as quickly.

* * *

**I hope you didn't actually think he was objecting to **_**killing**_** Anna, did you? Nope; just objecting to the risk to their research.**


	9. Report

**Just a heads-up. I get brutal this chapter. Very brutal. **_**Bloody**_** brutal. Don't-read-if-you're-hemophobic brutal. (Which for some reason, spell-check/auto correct keeps wanting to change to "**_**homo**_**phobic." It means something completely different, Microsoft! Or Firefox, for that matter....)**

**Now that _that_ warning is out of the way....**

**Let's see: I don't own the Secret Saturdays. I don't own Doyle, Drew or their parents. I don't own the Siberian Ice Spear (the weapon introduced last chapter). I don't own the organization Solés belongs to.  
I **_**do**_** own Solés (though once again, I wish I didn't), the spotted cat (which is a Tibetan Snow Lion, by the way, even though Doyle keeps calling it a 'pard), and...the various unnamed individuals who work for or with Solés.**

**This story is not meant to be Alternate Universe, though I'll leave the assessment of my success up to readers.  
This story will proceed in an episodic fashion.****  
Etc.  
**

* * *

Avalanche!

"_Anna_!" Jonathon had returned in time to see his wife die.

"Right on schedule," Solés muttered, and smiled.

Whatever Solés had known about the family, she had not seen fit to warn her people. The man holding the spear could not have anticipated Jonathon's inhuman speed, and didn't even have a chance to cry out before his neck was broken.

Jonathon snarled at Solés, and even she recoiled from his anger. But he turned instead to the man that held Doyle captive. That one was a little better prepared, and held the child up as a shield. Jonathon shrank away, unable to strike without harming his son.

Doyle did not make it easy for his captor. He screamed and squirmed and kicked and bit, and by purest luck, he struck the man right where it hurt the most. The man dropped him, and in that instant, Jonathon lunged in and sliced the man's throat from ear to ear, heedless of the blood spilling onto his son.

Doyle ran to his mother. He didn't understand why she was just laying there. Daddy could make her all better, but they needed to run away from the bad mans first. He frantically tried to wake her up. "Momma? Momma, _please_, get _up_." He didn't understand why he couldn't feel anything from her; no magic, no spirit....

Someone else made a grab for Doyle. Jonathon yanked the man away and started pounding his head into the ground. Even when the man stopped moving under him, Jonathon did not stop. He did not stop until....

"Daddy!" Doyle started crying.

Jonathon released the corpse and reached for his son. Doyle didn't even flinch. That fact _should_ have horrified Jonathon, but he was too busy worrying about his son's physical safety to wonder about his emotional state.

"Daddy, momma's hurted! She won't get up!" Doyle sobbed into Jonathon's arms, heedless of the blood. "I can't—I can't feel her spirit. The bad mans _hurted_ her, Daddy!"

"I know, I know," Jonathon whispered. He watched the other people warily, but they seemed a little too nervous. The woman Solés was having a hard time convincing them to take advantage. "I know; I'm sorry, _eyas_, I tried to get here as fast as I could. I'm sorry."

"Daddy?" Doyle squirmed around to look up at him. The tears flowed too quickly to freeze. He had to sniff a few times before he could talk again. "Daddy...where's...where's Drew? She's not _hurted_, is she, Daddy? Like momma?"

Jonathon had been hoping he wouldn't ask that. He sighed and shook his head. "She's...being taken care of." Not exactly a lie, but not quite the truth, either. Could Doyle tell the difference? "Don't worry, Doyle, I'll take you to see her." Jonathon jerked his head up at the sound of footsteps. Apparently Solés had made enough threats; Jonathon and Doyle were surrounded. "Right after I finish these _mahrime_," he snarled and rose to his feet.

The fight seemed strangely one-sided. Though the enemy was intent on bringing Jonathon down, none of them seemed willing to actually hurt him or Doyle. That was surely an advantage; certainly Jonathon had no qualms about hurting _them_. But as long as he had Doyle to protect, he had to be cautious. Too cautious to use that advantage. He could not clear enough space to run.

And they had a few dozen live bodies to throw at his one.

For the second time today, and the third time in his life, he felt a dread that chilled him more than the weather could ever manage.

Solés sneered at him from behind the group.

He was not going to be able to protect his son.

One of the men in the back dropped with a shout. Jonathon blinked in surprise. Then another one dropped. And another. Something moved through the group, coming straight at Jonathon and Doyle. The men ran to avoid whatever was killing them.

"'_Pard_!" Doyle shouted and waved. A spotted cat with a turquoise mane emerged from the crowd and tore into another man who'd thought to sneak up behind Jonathon. Its feet never once touched the ground.

Jonathon gave the animal a brief nod, then turned his attention back to the crowd.

The cat tore into the crowd again. It moved swiftly and silently; the men couldn't tell where it was except when it struck, and they scrambled to keep away.

Jonathon took down anyone unlucky enough to get past the creature's jaws. He and Doyle managed, a few steps at a time, to force their way past the crowd and to freedom.

Something sharp pierced Jonathon in the back.

"_Daddy!_" Doyle shrieked.

Jonathon dropped to his knees. His blood turned to ice. The cold reached into his brain; his consciousness began to fade.

The ice reached his heart....

"Daddy, get up! Please, daddy, we gotta _go_! We gotta get away from the bad mans. Please, daddy, please!" Doyle looked up at the woman Solés. She yanked the point of the spear from Jonathon's back. "You _hurted_ them! Why'd you hurt my momma and daddy?"

Solés didn't care that he was crying. His tears seemed to irritate her. Her face twisted into a snarl that terrified Doyle as no predator could ever do. "You little brat, will you just _shut up_?" She reached over and slapped Doyle across the face.

His mouth dropped open. Nobody, _nobody_ had ever hit him before, not on _purpose_. He was too stunned to even cry. He didn't know how to react.

Solés straightened up. "Would someone please take care of this brat? He's giving me...a..." She looked around, and the blood drained from her face. "...headache?" Nobody else was left standing.

The cat growled behind her, and she cringed and spun to face it. _Almost_ nobody else was left standing.

The cat dropped the bloody corpse and spit out the shredded remains of the man's throat. The creature advanced on the remaining agent.

Solés actually trembled with fear.

The cat lunged for Solés. She stabbed out with the spear, but the cat knocked it out of her hands. Solés managed to grab her gun in the same instant that the cat drove her to the ground.

She fired off several shots.

The cat tore at the gun.

She squeezed the trigger one last time.

Someone shrieked in pain.

And the cat's weight suddenly vanished. Solés rolled over onto her stomach. She gasped for air and started coughing up blood.

She heard the cat growl again, and she looked up to see it over the boy's huddled form. It sniffed at his arm where the last bullet had struck. _Damn! My superiors won't thank me for that._ Solés tried to struggle to her feet, to get her quarry, to do the job....

The cat snarled at her once last time, grabbed the boy up in its jaws, and disappeared into the blizzard.

Solés rolled over onto her back and dug out her radio; she'd lost too much blood, but she had to report this failure.

"Yes...sir. I'm at...Bl...Blackwell's camp. I need a...I'm going to...need a clean-up crew." She managed to give the coordinates in between fits of coughing. "The...the parents...the parents...are...are dead, sir. .... Yes, sir, both...both of them, sir. .... No, sir. No. The kids...got away. .... I understand, sir."

_What's done is done. I've failed my task, but I've delivered my report._ Duty done, she dropped the radio and closed her eyes.

* * *

**Thus ends the Avalanche story-arc. So far all I've done was hint at the conspiracy to come.  
In the next chapter, we travel to another part of the globe. We'll learn just who these conspirators are, we'll see what other victims get dragged into their plans....  
And we'll see just how far these people are willing to go for their...research.**

**I'm a little weird about the ending of this chapter. See, I knew what I wanted to have happen, but it took me the longest time to figure out how I wanted to **_**say**_** it. I'm not exactly sure I've gotten it right; more to the point, I'm not sure if I'd gotten the scene explaining **_**how**_** Doyle got away quite matching the one in my head.  
I like that bit about how Solés realized that she was the only one of her group left...and her finally showing signs of fear. After...I'm not so sure about.**

**Anybody else notice that Solés really doesn't seem to like kids? I'd played with the idea of claiming that she's Francis' mom (we've yet to find out who is in the show)...but I'm not sure that would work, considering her attitude. Maybe he's a test tube baby?  
Eh, I'll figure it out later. Or I just won't care.**  
**(Update: This remark was originally posted in what is now chapter 3, and was previously chapter 8 before the arcs were swapped. It was posted _well_ before the episode "Unblinking Eye," as was some related dialogue in a later chapter. Now think about Francis' reveal in that episode. "I knew it" moment or coincidence? You decide.)**


	10. Desperate

**I don't own the Secret Saturdays. I don't own Doyle.  
I do own...um, I think everyone else that shows up this chapter.**

**Did I mention some of my "bad guys" (or at least not nice "extras") discriminate against Gypsies? And that the discrimination sometimes includes derogatory terms?  
Yeah, I think I mentioned that a couple of chapters ago.  
Please keep that in mind.**

**Remember that thing I alluded to in the previous arc, about how "animals behave strangely" around Doyle and Drew?  
Well, unless JS starts in with that, I'll assume that that thing more-or-less atrophied due to lack of use (and more importantly, lack of **_**need**_**) on Drew's part.  
But as for Doyle, this chapter takes "behave strangely" to the next step.  
And that's not even the **_**final**_** step.**

**Timing (another major change): Technically within a few days after the previous chapter, though that timeframe really only shows up in sort-of flashbacks in this chapter, as I attempt to allude to his remarks in "And Your Enemies Closer" without a total rewrite.  
A chunk of this arc (the non flash-back scenes) starts during Van Rook's search in Chapter 4...say maybe spring-ish the year after Doyle's parents were killed, and the rest of the arc plays out until almost winter time of the same year.  
It'd probably be more realistic to call it winter of the next year, but I have my reasons for this. Mostly because I want the winter in question (which takes place _between_ this arc and the next) to be the first one he spends without any human contact, but more on that later.  
Long story short, the calendar year following the Avalanche arc.  
**

**Anywho, **_**finally**_**, here's the next chapter.**

* * *

Child's Plight

Doyle was hungry. That was no longer unusual.

The 'pard couldn't help him.

That monster that had attacked before the bad hunters came had chased down the 'pard. Doyle tried to fight it—the monster had hurt the 'pard for protecting him like it had tried to hurt Momma and Daddy, then the bad woman had hurt the 'pard the way _she'd_ hurt Momma and Daddy—but the 'pard had told him to find his daddy's people, then had hit him and sent him tumbling down the mountain.

He'd slammed into some boxes, some chickens starting flying around, and a man had come out and yelled at him. Doyle had only understood a few words, but the man was yelling about the trouble "his kind" made, and the man said something about his parents, and Doyle had started crying. The man stopped yelling, and made Doyle catch the chickens that had gotten out while the man fixed the boxes. After the chickens were back in the boxes, the man gave Doyle something to eat and shoved him away.

That day was the last Doyle could remember that he was not hungry, but he could no longer remember that feeling.

He was hungry, and he was desperate.

He couldn't buy food, either. His second day in one of these villages, three kids, all bigger than Drew, had attacked him. They'd hit him and pushed him around and shoved him in the dirt. He'd taken some coins from his pocket and thrown them, like Daddy had taught to escape from thieves, and ran in the other direction.

They'd taken the money and run after him, called _him_ a thief and took everything he had, covered his face in mud and worse, and left him with a cracked jaw.

The chicken man had found him a few hours later and took him to a house with other children. The woman taking care of them told him these were all children without families or homes.

Doyle had stayed a while, but he saw that _all_ of them were hungry. He decided to leave, to try to get his own food.

He'd tried catching his own meals, like the animals did, but he didn't have their strength or speed. He could usually only catch snakes, and he didn't know which ones were dangerous, so he didn't like catching them.

He'd tried begging for food, like he'd seen other people doing. If he was in a group, sometimes a stranger took pity on them all, and dropped stuff without caring who they gave it to. If they dropped food, sometimes he could eat it quick before anyone else took it. If they dropped money, he could _never_ keep it long enough to use it.

And it wasn't even other beggars taking it; they stole from him sometimes, and didn't share what they had, but it was usually people like those three kids, people who didn't _need_ what he had or even want it, but took it just so nobody else could have it.

If he was alone....

If he was alone, they might ignore him completely. Or they'd attack him like those three bigger kids, whether they could steal from him or not.

Sometimes people would come and see him, and other children, trying to beg, and would take them all to other places like that first. But those places still didn't have enough to eat, and some of the people were mean to him, like those three bigger kids. Some of them said stuff about "his kind" and made him leave. Sometimes he chose to leave before they could make him, and he saw other beggars doing the same.

He'd decided very quickly that he'd rather go hungry, if it meant nobody noticed him.

But he still needed to eat.

Sometimes he'd wake up and find a fresh-killed rat in front of him, or a few scraps that some stray animal stole from one of the stores. But most of the animals that brought him this food needed it as bad as he did. He never took much—maybe a mouthful to them, but barely more than a few crumbs to him—and even that only to be polite.

Five days after he'd stopped begging, he learned something very useful. Lots of people threw away stuff they didn't want. Some of it was still useful; the people who threw it out just didn't want it anymore.

And sometimes they threw away food. He knew Momma and Daddy sometimes threw away food when it went bad, but they tried to eat it before they had to get rid of it; they said it was bad to waste. But they'd also told him and Drew that _some_ people would throw out food before it got bad.

Thus it was that, more than a year and a hundred miles from where the 'pard had left him, he was digging through someone's garbage.

But even this source of food carried a source of danger. For one thing, he was not the only person interested in the garbage. There were adults who came by regularly, and collected the garbage in bins. What they did with it, he didn't know; they looked like they ate well, better than him, anyway. But most of them beat him or other kids like him if they caught him around their 'territory.'

The other problem was the amount. He'd gotten a little better at catching meals, and managed to add the occasional fish or squirrel to his snakes, but it wasn't much. And what he found in the garbage was hardly a supplement to his meager catch. These people simply couldn't afford to waste good food.

He'd learned _that_ lesson the hard way, over a week ago when he'd eaten a piece of bread covered in some green stuff. He hadn't been able to keep anything down for two days after, and could barely manage a few swallows of water for three days following.

There were some people, he knew, who had plenty of good food. He'd heard from their dogs about all the fresh table scraps they got. The animals were fed well, even without the scraps, and had offered to share with him.

The dogs didn't understand why their masters, good people they'd said, hit Doyle with sticks and made him run away.

Today, he discovered he could keep down a little bit of solid food. But he was still sick and weak, too weak to try to catch his food this time. If he didn't get some food soon, he'd only get weaker.

He was hungry, and he was desperate.

* * *

**Please, please, **_**please**_** review! I mentioned in my profile that I tend to use fanfiction to develop ideas for my original fiction. Well, though certain things will be changed (some of necessity, some of choice), I am **_**definitely**_** interested in porting Doyle's childhood, to nearly the exact circumstances, over to some of my original work.  
I even know who the victim...er, which character will have a similar childhood.**

**I **_**need**_** reviews, so I know what needs work. Certainly regarding my ability (or lack thereof) to describe the scenes, but especially regarding the scenes themselves.  
**_**Please**_**!!!! (Don't make me beg. Seriously.)**


	11. Not Yet

**I don't own the Secret Saturdays, I don't own Doyle, and I don't own a specific male character who shows up somewhere in the middle of this, or another specific male who speaks at the **_**end**_** of it....  
I **_**do**_** own a specific female character who deals with those two specific male characters....  
I sort of own the character Anzu (I use his internal dialogue twice in this chapter, though I don't identify him by name when that happens).**

**Et cetera.**

* * *

Child's Plight

He was hungry, and he was desperate.

He was desperate enough to try a bigger place, somewhere with more people.

He waited until after dark and snuck through the village. The few people outside were too many for his comfort. The slightest noise, the slightest hint that someone might be nearby, and he immediately darted into an alleyway, or behind a door, or crawled under a step, or hid himself in the debris.

His heart pounded, from fear and exhaustion, by the time he reached his target: the large inn in the middle of town.

He crept around the building and felt his way to where they left their trash. A door opened in front of him and the smells from inside surrounded him. He was tempted to stay put, just fill his lungs with the scent of so much good food, but instinct told him, as always, to hide. He scrambled around behind the door before whoever opened it could see him.

He was glad for his caution. A kitten sat at the door and begged for food, but the person who walked out kicked the small animal. The kitten darted away to hide in the shadow left by Doyle's body.

Doyle crouched in the shadows behind the door and trembled. He stared at the two women who came out. The first one, the one that had kicked at the kitten, carried a bucket of scraps. The second one was yelling at the first one.

They went around a corner, and were soon followed by a big man in a metal suit. He was yelling at the two women. The language was vaguely familiar to Doyle, though he couldn't make out what the man was saying. Doyle would have chosen to ignore them, provided they paid him no mind, except....

_I know that voice!_ Doyle's eyes widened. The man's voice was changed by his mask, but Doyle had heard someone who sounded like that. One of Daddy's friends had that voice.

_What was his name? Rock?_ No. It sounded like it, but Doyle thought it was some bird name. _Rook?_

If he was one of Daddy's friends, then maybe he'd give Doyle good food, and keep the bad people from hurting him. If he was one of Daddy's friends, then he was a good person; Daddy didn't make friends with bad people.

But _was_ it the same man? He had to make sure.

_Oh, no you don't. Not yet. He may have you someday, little human. But not until _I've_ played with you a while longer._

Doyle crept around the corner to watch the man and women. The man was yelling at the second woman, but she seemed to ignore him. Instead, she....

She was hitting the first woman, and had cut her, and was hurting her. Doyle frowned. The man...Rook?...the man yelled at her, but he didn't stop her from hurting the first woman. What was going on? Would...would one of Daddy's friends act like that? Would one of Daddy's friends let that happen...even if the first woman was bad?

The man growled something at the second woman and shoved her aside. He was angry at her, but not enough to hurt her like she was hurting the first woman. He took a big knife from his belt and cut the first woman's throat. She dropped and didn't rise again.

Doyle scrambled back to the shadows. The man killed that woman. Was he a bad man, then? If he was a bad man...then he wasn't one of Daddy's friends. Daddy didn't make friends with bad people.

Doyle peered around the corner. They were still arguing. They didn't pay attention to him, or the woman on the ground, or the bucket she'd dropped....

_The bucket__!_ Doyle's mouth watered. That bucket had smelled like food, _good_ food. If only those two people would go away, before anyone knew that woman was missing. He stared at the bucket and wished he dared grab it while they were there.

He looked up at a sound; the second woman was gone. Maybe the man would go, too, and Doyle could look at that bucket—

"See something you like?" Doyle jumped at the voice; how had she gotten behind him? The woman grabbed him and tossed him into the alley in front of the man. "Hey, I think I caught a spy. Want me get rid of him?"

"_Marie_...." the man growled and shook his head at her. "Isn't he a little small to be a spy?"

The woman shrugged. "It takes all kinds."

"And I thought _I_ was paranoid," the man muttered. He removed his mask and crouched to examine the child...and gasped.

_Ooh, interesting. No logical arguments for _this_ brain. I'll have to appeal to the boy's _instincts_. A challenge. Fun._

Doyle was too panicked to consider the man's reaction. He grabbed the closest thing—the mess from the bucket—and started throwing it at the two people. "No!" he screamed. He threw mud and rocks and more goop. "You're not...you can't be Rook! You're a _bad man_! You're not Daddy's friend. Daddy doesn't make friends with _bad_ people!"

The woman shouted in surprise, but the man didn't let her defend herself. Doyle ran away before the man could change his mind.

He barely noticed tripping three times as he raced to hide. He ignored the people that came out of their homes to stare at him as he ran by. The villagers, figuring it was just another vagabond, ignored him and went back inside.

He crawled under the half-rotten remains of a stairway and panted. He thought he heard them running after him.... It took a moment to realize that the pounding was his heart.

Doyle squeezed his eyes shut. _Daddy said...fear is okay...even the hunter gets scared sometimes. But panic is for prey, for _easy_ prey. _Prey_ that runs too quick, maybe doesn't know where he's going. Panic gets you caught like prey. The _hunter_ is patient. The hunter is calm. The hunter knows what he's doing. Be the hunter_. He repeated that mantra until he slipped into a trance. "Be the hunter." His heart slowed, his breathing quieted...and his senses sharpened, not with fear, but focus.

The man's voice came from above. Doyle inched out from his hiding place to see where the man was. He looked up and saw the man and woman flying, searching.... Hunting.

The man called again.

Doyle huddled into the shadows. A new wave of fear threatened to overwhelm his trance. The man—the man who must be a _bad_ man, the man who couldn't be one of Daddy's friends....

The man was calling Doyle's name.

Doyle shook; he prayed the man would just go away.

—

"What is your problem?" Marie asked. "First you want to terrorize people into giving you intel on your wife, but you get too squeamish when I try to do what you hired me for. Then you decide that little urchin ain't worth your time, only to drop your search to look for him? What are you thinking?" She sighed. "_Are_ you thinking?"

"That was Jonathon's boy," Van Rook replied.

Marie wasn't sure he was talking to her; he was still stunned from when he'd seen the kid. "Eh? Who again?"

"My mentor...that was his son, I'm _sure_ of it." He shook his head. "But that is not possible. They should have reached the clan by now. How could he be _here_?" He flew in another direction to continue the search.

Marie switched her radio to another frequency and relayed what Van Rook had just said. "Is this the kid your people have been looking for? What do you want me to do about him?" She glanced at the stairs where Doyle hid.

Epsilon took a long moment before answering. "Nothing, for the moment. Get the mercenary away from the child; keep him focused on his wife."

"Hmm? Wouldn't it just be easier to send the kid to you after Van Rook grabs him?"

"Maybe, _if_ you could do it. But those of his profession tend to be paranoid when any nation's military is involved—even former military. That he hired you shows desperation on his part, not trust. If the mercenary decides he has to protect the boy, _you_ will not be able to get within a thousand miles of either of them." Epsilon cleared his throat. "Aeron is close to the sister's age; if nothing else, he might be able to cultivate the boy for us. But we can't close in until we can be sure the mercenary won't interfere."

"Understood, sir." Marie switched the frequency back. She took one more glance at the stairs. The kid was good, she'd give him that, but the mercenary must have been shocked out of his wits not to have seen him there. She shook her head and laughed, and went to nudge her 'employer' back onto his wild goose chase.

—

The man and woman eventually left.

Doyle's senses dulled as he let the trance fade. He shook his hands to work out the cramps. They hurt weird, for some reason; he'd been holding something when he'd run....

He stared at the objects he'd been clenching. He'd grabbed up more rocks, or so he'd thought, to use as weapons when he'd run away from those people. Only...these weren't rocks.

He'd grabbed bones, probably from that bucket. He picked one up and smelled it. Cow? They must've been boiled, back at the inn; he'd seen some people flavor their soups that way. And these...these still had some marrow in them.

He breathed a prayer of thanks to whatever gods granted him this fortune. Though weakened from boiling, the bones were too thick for him to crack open, but maybe he could dig the marrow out....

* * *

**Know what's really sad about Doyle's childhood? That fact that I'm calling that scene with the bones a happy ending....  
Or is that what's really sad about me?**

**Sheesh.**

**Oh, by the way, "Marie" was originally created sometime in 2008...**_**long**_** before the episode "Kur Guardian." And I have never read the comics (though I'd like to).  
"Marie," as I originally imagined her, looks a lot like Abbey Grey. Is there any other similarity? Only time will tell....  
(Spooky? You tell me.)**


	12. Divine Interference

**I...don't own Doyle, I don't own the Secret Saturdays, I don't own Doyle's parents.  
I do own...the kids that are picking on Doyle, the shopkeeper, Faizura "Fae" Tailor, and her tutor/chaperone/whatever-he's-supposed-to-be.  
And Anzu. Though I'm starting to wish I didn't.**

**You'll see why soon enough.**

**This chapter was originally titled "Cruel."**

**You'll see why soon enough.**

**Um, I mentioned that discrimination will occur within my story, right? Including occasional ethnic slurs.  
Now what was the reason for bringing that up?  
Oh, right.... **_**This**_** was the reason.... (And this won't be the last time.)**

**I refer to the Grey Men in this chapter as "grey demons." I typically refer to them as "grey demons" (after someone else calls them that, first). The difference becomes relevant in Chapter...35.  
**

**Timing: a few months following chapter 11. Summer, maybe? Same year, at any rate.  
**

**Anywho:**

* * *

Child's Plight

Doyle was hungry.

He was hungry, and afraid, and confused.

The animals kept telling him to try the bigger houses; those places had more food, more _good_ food. But he still bore the scars one of their people had given him the last time he'd tried, and he was afraid to try again.

He found himself approaching one of those houses, in spite of his fear. Some instinct pulled him to this house. He'd learned to trust his instincts; they sometimes showed him danger where there was none, but they rarely let him walk unknowing into danger.

He approached a lone house, and finally heard what pulled so hard at his instincts.

Some small animal was in there; a kitten had fallen into a hole on the other side of the fence. He'd heard the animal crying for help.

He found the hole, but the fence post was too deep; he couldn't get to the kitten from this side. He glanced around to be sure that no human watched him, and climbed through the fence.

He peered into the hole before deciding on a move. The dirt was loose, and if he wasn't careful, he could send it on top of the animal. The kitten had already found that out when he'd tried to climb out on his own.

Doyle sang quietly to the kitten and its momma, easing their fear before he reached in.

He shoved some of the dirt around, a little here, a little there, and finally he had room to grab the kitten and pull him out. Doyle set him on the ground so his momma could fuss over him and wash him off.

The kitten hadn't been hurt, except for his pride; he had only been scared, though now he tried to pretend he wasn't.

Doyle laughed at the kitten's act...and heard someone behind him join in.

He spun around to see a young woman watching him. He trembled and pressed himself up against the fence.

The woman either didn't notice his fear, or pretended not to notice. She reached down and picked up the kitten and his momma, and cuddled them to her.

"Did this nice young man rescue you, my little daredevil?" The woman made a clucking noise at the kitten, and he purred and rubbed against her throat. "Such heroism _must_ be rewarded, don't you think?" The kitten meowed in agreement.

She motioned for Doyle to follow her. He blinked. She...didn't _seem_ like she'd want to hurt him. There was something about her, something nice. Not magic, like momma and daddy had, but something that felt...good about her. Something he hadn't found in the other villagers. The animals liked her; even the kitten's pride faded in the face of his love for this human. And Doyle's instincts rarely let him walk unknowing into danger....

But he still bore the scars from the last time he'd approached one of these places.

_Oh, do as she says, already,_ the mother cat purred at him. She didn't speak in _words_, exactly—words were more a human construction—but that was the feel of her thoughts. _She doesn't bite. Least not at little starveling kits who haven't the fangs to bite back._

_But she's _human_,_ Doyle protested in the same form. _They _always_ try to bite me, sooner or later. _You_ haven't seen what I've been through!_

The mother cat hissed and bared her teeth at him. _Insolent kit! _She_ doesn't bite, but I've half a mind to; I'd smack one of my _own_ kits for talking back. I will _not_ take that from a feral runt who hasn't even a twitch of a scent what he's arguing about._

Doyle considered arguing further, but decided against it. The cat might've been his age in years, but her mind was adult and her spirit ancient. And her tone sent that she knew _exactly_ what other humans had done to him. If she saw that, and still believed that this human was different....

The cat settled her fur back into place. _Just because the two-leggers _you've_ run into have got more claws than brains doesn't mean _all_ of them are like that. _This_ one knows a good kit when she sees one._ She grumbled, but she sounded pleased that Doyle had changed his mind. _And even some of them as _don't_ have brains aren't so quick to use their claws, except to get someone else's claws out of them._

The woman merely quirked an eyebrow at the cat's quick change in moods, and when Doyle got up, she led him inside.

Inside, the woman put down the cats and looked Doyle over. She wrinkled her nose at the state of his clothing, wandered into another room, and came back with a pile of clean clothes. She held them up to him, one after another, until she found a few sets that looked like a good size.

She made a wry expression. "Guess it pays to be the tailor's daughter. And if anyone complains about what I do with _my_ investment, I can always argue that charity looks good on taxes."

She grabbed the few outfits she liked the size of and steered Doyle into another room with a huge tub.

"Can you get yourself clean, or will you need some help?" she asked as she filled the tub.

Doyle stared at the rising steam and almost missed the question. He had to think a bit about the dialect before he could answer. "Yes ma'am...I mean, I can clean myself."

She saw his expression and tried to hide her amusement. She'd expected him to react that way to a good meal, but to a hot bath? "All right, then, once you get cleaned up, try on those clothes I got out. I don't know if they'll all fit quite right, so you tell me if you need something different. If you've got anything with you that you want to keep, get it out, but as for your old clothing...." She looked him over again and grimaced. "Those things aren't even any good as rags anymore."

He stared at the floor. "Yes, ma'am."

She showed him the knobs and the drain, in case he needed to add water or refill the tub, and spread out a few different soaps and utensils for him to choose from. "If you need any help, with _any_thing, let me know. Meanwhile...I'll _try_ to have some food ready by the time you get out, okay?"

He nodded. The woman, unwilling to discomfort him more than he was, left to follow up on that promise. Once he was sure she wasn't coming back in, Doyle stripped and climbed into the tub.

He soaked in the water until it turned cold, refilled it and added some of the soap she'd given him, then had to fill it a third time to rinse away all the soap. He dried himself off with two soft towels and reveled in the feeling of finally being _clean_ for the first time since the attack in the mountains.

His stomach growled, reminding him of what else the woman had offered. He glanced over his old clothes, checking for spells that daddy might have left, then ignored them as not worth keeping. He picked through the new clothes until he found several articles that fit him well enough.

He heard yelling, and paused while trying on another shirt. There was a man out there, and the man was arguing with the woman.

"—too much time with that Benton savage!"

"Excuse me, sir, but my father pays you to teach me academics, not to tell me who's allowed to court me and who isn't. And Benton is _not_ a _savage_!"

"Hunter, savage, same difference. He spends all of his time out in the woods, _killing_ wild animals for a living. He's hardly fit company for a lady, Faizura, much less a suitable partner—"

The woman replied with a string of very rude words.

"I rest my case." The bathroom door opened, and a man dragged Doyle out before he could even react.

The man shoved Doyle towards the front door. "And now he's got you taking in beggars. For someone supposedly _intelligent_, you don't seem to realize just how dangerous that can be. Sure, some of them are harmless enough, but one can never tell." The man paused and reached into his jacket. Doyle took that moment to finish struggling into the shirt.

The man pulled out a few coins and shoved them at Doyle. "Here, boy, go buy yourself a meal." He glanced at the woman. "Cheaper, still looks good on taxes, and _far_ safer than letting a stranger into your home."

The woman gaped. "You can't expect him to go back to that village. He's a _gypsy_—"

The man smiled. The expression was neither cruel, nor nice; the man merely looked...bored. "All the more reason not to let him into your home."

The woman swore again. "You _know_ how those idiots are about gypsies; they'll tear him apart!"

But the man wasn't listening. He shoved Doyle outside and slammed the door in his face.

Doyle glanced at the coins in his hand. He knew people bought things with different kinds of money, but he hadn't the slightest idea what kind he'd been given. And he wasn't sure he wanted to know, not with all the people who'd hurt him for it. But he wasn't sure what else to do, so he dropped the coins into a pocket of his new pants and trudged back to the village.

He could still hear the man and the woman arguing behind him.

He shook as he went back into the village, but as usual, most of the people chose to ignore him. More than usual, actually; maybe because he didn't look so much like a beggar anymore. He stood up a little straighter; maybe he _could_ do this.

He smelled fresh bread, and he let the scent lead him into one of the stores. He looked around and saw a man behind a counter.

The man seemed to ignore him, but he approached. "Excuse me, sir?" He stretched up to drop one of the coins on the counter. The man immediately turned at the sound and put on a bright smile. "What can I get for this?" He thought the question might be dangerous, but he didn't see how _not_ asking could be any worse.

The man looked at the coin and took in the appearance of the boy before him, and put on an even brighter smile. Judging from the clothes, he was probably one of Faizura's charity cases, and the man didn't want to risk losing her family's business by being less than polite. "Why don't you give me a moment, and I'll see just what I can find, all right, kid?"

Doyle nodded. The man went into a back room for a few minutes.

Doyle suddenly stiffened. His instincts alerted him to danger even before the door opened.

"Hey, now, lookee here at the rich little gyppo." The speaker spit out the last word like it tasted bad. Doyle whirled to face the speaker, a boy who looked nearly full-grown. "Nice clothes, gyppo; where'd you steal them?" The boys behind him, almost as big as the speaker, laughed.

The man came back out when he heard the laughter, still holding the knife he'd cut bread with. "Here, now, why are you trying to scare away my customer?"

Another boy shrugged. "He's no customer, he's a _thief_."

Doyle pressed himself up against the counter and looked wildly for an escape route. But the boys were crowded in front of the only door.

The man snorted in derision. "Pretty well dressed for a thief. Did you see him steal something, then? Or are you just trying to make your usual trouble?"

The first boy spoke up. "Of _course_ he's a thief; he's a _gyppo_."

"A _gypsy_, huh?" the man snarled. The boys nodded, and one of them laughed.

At that statement, several things clicked in Doyle's mind at once. Gyppo...gypsy. What some outsiders called them. Romani, daddy's people. Daddy had told them that not everyone liked Romani, that some people were mean to Romani. These boys called him a thief...because he was a gypsy. And that woman had said that the villagers might hurt him...because he was a gypsy?

His eyes widened at the realization, and he glanced up at the man, hoping for some kind of reassurance. The man had been nice to him when he walked in, even if it was just because he was going to buy stuff. Surely the man wouldn't let these boys hurt him....

Doyle cringed. The man looked very angry...and he was looking at _Doyle_.

"A _gypsy_," the man repeated. "A _thief_. In _my_ shop."

The man walked around the counter, still holding the knife. Doyle recoiled from the man's anger; his whimpering threatened to turn into screaming. The boys moved around to get a better view.

"Out! _Out!_ _Get the hell out of my shop_!" The man waved the knife in Doyle's direction. "_Vermin_! I'll teach you to come into _my_ shop, you filthy little _rat_!"

Doyle stumbled into a wall. He glanced around frantically, and made a break for the door.

Some of the boys applauded, as though the man had put on a show just to entertain them.

The man stomped back to the counter, shaking with rage. "A _gypsy_," he hissed, "in _my_ shop." He glanced at the coin Doyle had left, smiled, and dropped it into a pocket. "Here, you," he said to the boys who stayed behind. He pulled a handful of small coins from his cashbox—the total worth maybe half the coin he'd gotten from Doyle—and handed them over to the boys. "Go buy yourselves a treat."

One of the boys turned to the first one. "Are we going after him, or what?"

The first boy shook his head. "Nah, not yet. Let the runt get a head start." He counted down a few seconds on his fingers. "Okay, _go_!" The boys ran out in a pack, each trying to out-shout one another, hollering about what sort of things they might do to Doyle once they caught him.

Doyle had noticed that nobody was following him. He wanted to slow down, to catch his breath and look for a hiding place. But his instincts warned him to keep running.

_Be the hunter. The hunter is calm. The hunter doesn't panic. Be the hunter._ He repeated that mantra, and started to slip into his trance.

And then he heard the boys hollering at him.

He darted around a corner. His smaller size let him avoid certain obstacles more easily than they, but he was out of breath, and they were bigger, stronger and faster.

_Be the...._ "_NO!_ Nononononononononono...."

He felt something strike his back. One or more of the boys had grabbed stones to throw at him. He tried to run past the pain, let it force more speed into his legs, but otherwise ignore it.

One rock struck him near his knee. It threw him off balance, and he fell to the ground with a yell. The boys swarmed around him, kicking him and throwing their stones at him. He tried to get up and run away, but they grabbed him and threw him back to the ground. They called him "gyppo," and "thief," and yelled insults he only vaguely understood and other things he didn't understand at all.

After a while, they stopped hitting him, but three of them still held him pinned to the ground. One of the boys asked their mob leader what they should do with him.

The first boy thought for a moment. He looked around at where they were, and a grin formed on his face. He grabbed Doyle by the hair and forced him to look up. "You see that river over there, gyppo? They say a demon lives there." Doyle tried to pull away, and the boy snickered. "Yup. A demon that eats people. They say a lot of people died on that river, because of the demon." He released his hold on Doyle. "Do you know where demons come from, gyppo?"

Doyle shivered and shook his head.

The boy frowned. "You ought to know. They come from the same place as gyppos. They come from _Hell_." He sneered. "Maybe if we feed a gyppo to the demon, it'll go back to Hell and stop eating _our_ people."

Doyle stared at the boy and struggled to get free. He started crying.

Some of the boys started to shift uncomfortably at the suggestion. One suggested that since he's a thief, he should be punished like a thief. And everyone knew that that you punish a thief by cutting off his hands.

The first boy glared at the one who'd objected. "Nah. He could still be a problem for us _honest_ working folk. And then there'd still be the demon." He jerked his chin towards the river. "Take him."

The other boys looked at each other warily...but none of them were willing to contradict the first one.

Doyle tried everything he could to get free. He screamed, he kicked, he bit, he clawed, he begged for them to let him go. He tried to dig his feet into the ground, but they held him up so he couldn't reach. None of them were brave enough to contradict the mob leader, and every time he twisted free of one boy's grasp, another one stepped in to grab him.

Doyle screamed and cried; he wasn't sure what he said, though he thought he'd called for momma and daddy at one point. The mob leader snickered about that.

And then the boys dropped him. One of them gasped. Two more started to scream. And then all of them ran away.

Doyle huddled on the ground and shivered. He didn't understand why the boys had run away; if something scared _them_, how much worse would it be for _him_?

Several moments passed and nothing happened. Doyle forced himself to look up...and his eyes widened.

"Momma! Daddy!" He grinned and got to his feet as quickly as the pain would allow...and daddy shoved him back to the ground.

He blinked. "Da—daddy?" He looked up at his parents in confusion. They looked strange; angry...and _mean_. "Daddy, what's wrong?"

_How _dare_ you? Pathetic little brat!_ Doyle stared. _Little _coward_! This is all your fault! _You_ killed us!_

Doyle cowered away from his father. "N...no! I _didn't_—"

Daddy slapped him, and Doyle screamed. The merest touch burned worse than even what those bad hunters had done to him.

_That monster attacked us because it was after __you__. Those grey hunters _killed_ us__ because they were after _you_; killed us, and sent your sister to her death._

"_No!_" Doyle shrieked.

Momma scowled at him. _Oh, she survived. But _we_ couldn't protect her. __We _could_ have gotten away from the first monster, if this sniveling little brat hadn't run away. But no, you ran away, you left us to face that thing, left us too busy to protect our own _daughter_!_

"I...I didn't run away," Doyle sobbed. "I _tried_ to help you, I _did_! The monster hit me, and I—"

_And now you make excuses,_ Daddy said with a sneer. _And you _dare_ to beg _us_ for help? Filthy little vermin. You _let_ those grey hunters kill us, and now you think to shelter among the _dead_?_

More ghosts appeared and surrounded him, ghosts of wet people, or broken people. These other ghosts looked as angry as momma and daddy.

Momma's smile was cruel. _Oh, but perhaps he _should_ shelter among the dead. It would make things so much...easier for us to deal with._ She reached out and grabbed his ankle...and started to drag him towards the river.

Doyle started screaming again. He didn't know how he got free, but he felt her release him, and ran away as quick as he was able. He kept running until he was too tired to take another step, and collapsed, weeping. Fear alone kept him awake.

It was only when exhaustion caught up with him that he finally passed out.

—

Anzu dissolved his illusions and shook his hand where Doyle's magic had stung him. He chuckled to himself. A child, a _mortal_ child, had actually managed to hurt a _god_. That child might be more interesting than Anzu had first believed....

Jonathon and Anna, no longer blocked by the god's power, stared at him.

Jonathon saw only Anzu's amusement, and his rage built until he couldn't keep his mouth shut. "_What the hell is _wrong_ with you__?!_"

Anzu glanced up at him, then continued to try to work some feeling back into his hand. "Funny thing, but swearing at a god doesn't have the same effect that it would on a mortal." He glanced back at Jonathon. "I find the religious epithets especially amusing."

"My lord, you'd promised to _protect_ our son," Anna said through her tears.

"I promised to ensure that he is prepared for the role he must play," Anzu corrected. "He'll need to be self-sufficient."

"_Self-sufficient_?!" Jonathon shrieked.

Anzu winced at the blast of mental energy. "Shrieking doesn't do much, either. I admit, you were more powerful than most humans to begin with, and as a ghost, you are stronger yet in the supernatural department—" He rubbed at his injured hand. "—and your son clearly stronger still.... But the fact is that you are still a mortal, and I am still a god."

Jonathon snarled at the god. "Self...sufficient," he repeated. "You? You mean to make him paranoid. You mean to keep him from ever trusting _anyone_!"

The birdman cocked his head. "There's a difference?"

"Lord Anzu, please," Anna said. "Whatever your goal, do you honestly believe it was necessary to _terrorize_ him?"

Anzu shrugged. "I certainly couldn't have him running to 'mommy and daddy' whenever he felt like it."

Jonathon tried to swallow back his tears. "But you—you made him think that—that we—" Grief warred with anger.

Anzu snickered. "You don't have much confidence in the boy's strength, do you? He'll get over it. He's stronger than even you. I wouldn't thought him useful if something _this_ minor could damage him beyond repair."

"I'm sorry," Jonathon growled. "I forgot. I'm talking to a damned _god_, who isn't even capable of understanding mortal emotion, and thinks it's _funny_ that he traumatized a _child_!"

"And they say that the _gods_ have no patience," Anzu muttered. "My goodness, I never planned on _leaving_ him like that. I'll fix it...eventually."

"You fix it _now_," Jonathon replied.

Anzu shook his head. "What's done is done, and my capacity to undo it is...limited. And if I try to fix it, _before_ he's had the chance to grow stronger and move past it on his own...." Anzu shrugged. "You just said I don't understand mortal emotion; suppose I damaged him more?"

Jonathon glared at the god. "I don't care that you're a god, I _will_ find a way to kill you."

"Do let me know when you've found it. Or at least, don't mention it again." The birdman yawned. "Empty threats are so _dull_." He flew off, leaving the two ghosts to weep into each other's arms.

* * *

***Jaw drops*  
I repeat Jonathon's question, though with different words. What, in the name of all of the gods, is wrong with Anzu? Do **_**all**_** of the more sadistic gods go that far?  
Though I'm starting to wonder if even "sadistic" is a strong enough word to describe him.  
And the same question goes for most of the villagers, especially that mob of nearly-grown boys.****  
(Oh, the age and size thing is important. The three he mentioned in a previous chapter were about twice as big as Drew was back then, and this mob is nearly full grown. And Doyle is...well, approximately a year older than when the avalanche occurred. I guesstimated he was five when that happened, so he'd be six in this chapter—as is only relevant in the few chapters that refer to a specific age—but he might've been younger. Not sure how much my timeline would be affected by official information in that area.  
Huh. And it took three from that mob to pin him down. **_**So**_** brave of them, don't you think?)**

**Wow. A chapter that makes Doyle the victim, and it **_**isn't**_** because of the Grey Men.  
A lot of the trouble he faces throughout my generic history is due to prejudice against gypsies (when it isn't because of Anzu or the Grey Men, and sometimes even then....), but this is the first time he made the connection.**

**On a lighter note, remember that business with "animals behave strangely"? I...still haven't taken that as far as it's going. How far I take it depends on the story. It'll reach a certain level in this generic history, but some of my later stories take things further yet.  
(And to fish for specific reviews, what—good or bad—do readers think of the manner in which the animals communicate? I want to use that concept in my original fiction, so please let me know how it worked. I go into more detail in Chapter...um...27.)**

**Some of you may have noticed that I tend to repeat myself. Maybe a basic concept, maybe half a phrase, maybe an entire sentence, but I **_**will**_** repeat some things. Some are accidents—I change around a scene, and forget to remove one line or another—but others are deliberate.  
I still want constructive reviews, but remember, "I meant to do that" may be a valid response if you call me out on certain "mistakes."  
And not just about the repetition.**

**Thought process:  
Fae "originally" appeared...in the next story arc. (Not next chapter; next **_**arc**_**. This one's got three more chapters.) S****he ended up in this chapter because I needed some reason for Doyle to have money on him when that mob decided to go after him.  
Oh, and she wasn't just standing around arguing with that tutor; she **_**was**_** trying to get back out to bring Doyle back inside. She just never managed to do so before he left.  
And that tutor wasn't being cruel; he's just as prejudiced as the villagers, and ignorant of the cruelties the villagers are capable of, but not cruel in and of himself. He was being **_**practical**_** by pointing out that bringing a stranger, even a beggar child, into one's home can be very dangerous.**

**More about Fae:  
Her full name, Faizura, started out as an accidental mispronunciation of Turkish "Fairuza," but turned into a combination of that name and "azure."  
**


	13. The Home

**Reader reviews: I've been giving Doyle the childhood from Hades or worse, and people are saying the story is **_**good**_**.  
Hmm.... Do I dare think about the implications?  
All smart-aleck-ness (is that even a word?) aside, I would appreciate constructive reviews. I think it's great that there are people out there that like my writing, and I don't want to sound ungrateful, but I'd still like to hear something more specific than that. What you like, what you don't like, what works, what doesn't work, what sounds right for the storyline or character, what stretches the limits of belief.  
And most of all, since I do like to salvage my fan-fiction for use in my original fiction, if I ask for reviews regarding specific scenes or concepts, **_**please**_** tell me how those scenes work.**

**In case you haven't noticed, I tend to use a medieval-ish bent to my settings...especially when I'm trying to describe these out-of-the-way villages.  
My writing is very heavily influenced by fantasy novels such as those in the Valdemar series, Lord of the Rings, and many others. I **_**hope**_** it shows. And I hope I didn't just insult those authors by the comparison.**

**Okay, copyright: I don't own Doyle. I own...everyone or thing else that shows up in this chapter...unless it's something that I forgot that I put in.**

**Timing: say another few months after Chapter 12. Fall, getting close to winter.  
**

* * *

Child's Plight

Doyle woke to the feeling of eyes on him.

He'd felt that way since before momma and daddy had died, but now he felt new eyes. The feeling had grown stronger for several days, until he could feel the eyes even in his sleep.

His dreams had become reflections of reality, and he could no longer be sure when he was awake. Though his instincts shouted at him, he could no longer obey them.

Thus it was that, when the people tore open his hiding place, he was too late to recognize the danger.

Two men tossed a bag over him. He tried to squirm free, and he managed to bite one of them before they hit him on the head and had him so tangled up in the cloth that he couldn't move.

Not that he had much thought to move. That blow to the head had knocked him nearly senseless; he hardly remembered to breathe.

He couldn't tell how long they carried him. He bounced around so much, he'd have been _glad_ he hadn't eaten, if he'd had the thought to spare.

His ears rang and he saw stars after even after they dumped him. Nothing seemed to work quite right, until he pulled his way free of the bag.

And then the smell hit him. _Food_. Nothing like he'd smelled at the cat woman's house, but nothing like he'd found in the trash, either. It smelled like an inn.

Confusion warred with desperation. They hadn't driven him away; they'd _brought_ him here. Why? To taunt him with the smell? Or....

The cat had reminded him that not all people were bad. Could he hope...?

"Brought me another starveling, huh?" the woman before him said. She crouched down to Doyle's eye level, and he stared at her. "Hello, little one. Do you know why you're here?"

Doyle shook his head; he was still dazed.

"We've found a lot of children out on their own. Some of them don't have parents, or homes, and some of them their parents can't take care of. Or maybe they've even got reasons to stay away from their homes." She shrugged off the differences. "Whatever their reason, they've got nobody but themselves to look out for them. They never learn to be good, and people are bad to them. They get hurt, sometimes by people that are bigger and stronger and should know better, and then all _they_ learn is to be bad."

Once he worked his way through the dialect, he realized that some of this sounded a _lot_ like what he'd gone through.

"What we do," the woman continued, "is we take those children here. We look after them, give them a safe place to stay, teach them their place in the world...and find other people who can see how valuable these children really are. Now doesn't that sound nice?" She smiled at him.

He didn't smile back.

This place sounded like some of the others he'd been taken to, though nobody had ever explained it that way before. It looked better, like maybe they had better things, maybe more food. And the cat had said that not all people were bad.

This woman didn't seem like the cat's human, but she didn't seem like the other villagers, either. And his instincts weren't screaming at him to run away....

But they warned him to be cautious. Not all predators looked dangerous, and traps could look very good. They hadn't hit him so hard that he'd forgotten they _had_ hit him. And they _had_ forced him to come here. These people had already decided he was some kind of prey.

He hesitated, decided it was safer to play along for the moment, and nodded.

"And I suppose you'll be wanting your dinner now, won't you?" she asked. He opened his mouth, her smile turned cold, and his heart sank. She gestured one of the men forward. It was the one he'd bitten.

"Looks to me like you've already had your dinner, so why don't we start with the lessons, instead?" She held up the man's injured hand. "This was bad. _Good_ little children don't bite." Doyle cringed. "You get cleaned up, and we'll find you a place to sleep. Tomorrow you can join the other children for breakfast." She frowned at him, and added, "If you're bad again, I won't be so easy on you. You understand?"

He nodded and followed her. She eventually left him in a room full of beds, and the door clicked behind her.

He settled himself into one of the beds, and almost immediately started tossing. He was still awake when the door clicked open, and a bunch of boys around Doyle's age came in, most smaller than him and some only a bit bigger. One of the bigger ones shoved him out of the bed, and another said something about getting filth all over the blankets.

A couple of the other boys looked at him with pity at this remark, but these ones stayed well away from all of the others.

Doyle said nothing, and simply curled up in the corner farthest from the door.

—

The woman scowled at her associates. "A gypsy? You brought me a _gypsy_? Are there that few beggars anymore that you've got to bring me that kind of trash?"

"We can't always choose our beggars," one of the men said, and laughed at his attempt at wit. The woman grimaced.

"But sometimes we luck out," the other man added with a shrug. "We've been watching the kid for about a week now. He looks as timid as most of your littler ones. And he's got a good face on him, too."

"True...." The woman thought. "And he's cleaner than most of the things we find. I didn't find even a hint of a parasite on him." She frowned. "But you've seen how hard it is to break them. A gypsy will never settle down well enough for most of my clients. They're practically worthless."

"They're worthless to your regular clients," the second man corrected. "But they're 'exotic' to the rest. There are clients willing to work for that."

"A gamble, then?" The woman rolled her eyes. "If I didn't have government funding for 'providing a home' for these kids, I'd have given the whole thing up ages ago," she muttered. "It's hardly worth keeping all of these mongrels around in the hopes that someone might want to buy them."

The men ignored the rant; they'd heard it many times before. "Shall I arrange the paperwork, then?" the first man asked.

"Yeah, sure, just make sure you didn't grab another runaway," she said with a shudder. None of them wanted to repeat the legal nonsense from that mistake. Before then, nobody had cared enough to investigate the place, and the woman could sell several children at once with little attention to the official records.

But one family had tracked their kid to her place shortly after he'd been 'adopted;' and she'd had to forge new records on the spot to keep them from finding out what was really going on. It had since proved a safer decision to deal with each child on an individual basis, though a less profitable one. Many clients were not willing to risk discovery for a single child or repeat visits, and she'd lost a lot of business.

—

Doyle learned one of the Home's rules the next morning. None of the kids could eat until the rooms were straightened up.

The older children pushed around the littler ones and made them do the work. Doyle moved to help, but they shoved him away and said they didn't want a gypsy touching their things.

The more timid of the smaller ones looked at him with anger; the others looked at him with contempt matching the bigger ones.

When the room was finally clean, the children surged out to their meal. Doyle was pushed to the back of the room with the smaller children. The bigger ones laughed to see the others mimicking them.

Except for the ones who'd looked at him with pity, but they stayed away from everyone.

Doyle was the last to leave the room, and the last to get breakfast. By the time he had a plate, all that was left was the cold, hard stuff that nobody else wanted.

He accepted it with gratitude, but the other children still managed to steal half of his meal before he could take a bite.

The woman simply watched the children.

—

Over the next few days, Doyle learned the children were given many chores. They weren't _given_ food and shelter; they were expected to earn it.

But nobody, including the woman that ran the place, wanted to give Doyle or some of the other children—other Romani, or those two boys who'd looked at him with pity, and a few others—anything to do. And when the other children were given treats or extra food as rewards for their work, those that weren't allowed any chores were told they were lazy and didn't deserve anything and should be grateful for what they _were_ given.

The other children continued to make it hard for him to eat; they kept him from the meals and tried to steal whatever was left. Sometimes, one of the more timid children would take his food and give it to one of the bigger kids. This often earned the thief a few nice words and protection from the other bullies for a day or two.

When Doyle tried to defend himself, the other kids ganged up on him. The woman who ran the place never did anything to stop them, and sometimes gave an extra treat to one of Doyle's tormentors.

Sometimes, a person would come by, looking for one child or another. Some people wanted strong children, and other people wanted pretty children. His instincts warned him to stay away from them, especially the ones wanting the pretty ones, but he couldn't understand why.

Nor did he understand why the woman got mad at him just because none of those people wanted him.

He'd managed to accept this life, in spite of his instincts, until the fourth night in that place.

—

He'd heard a girl singing every night since he'd been there. He didn't understand more than a few words, something about wolves and the moon, but it sounded like one of the Romani tongues. An older dialect, daddy had taught them, when he'd sung it over them for protection. Doyle finally decided to see who was singing, and crept out of the boys' room to find out.

The voice led him to the next floor. He nudged a door open and saw a girl sitting up in bed and singing. She held colored stones in her hand, like daddy had done; two green stones and a white stone. Doyle sat down in the doorway and listened, until she noticed him and stopped with a squeak.

She jumped out of the bed, and before he could move, she had her hands over his mouth. "What do you want?" she whispered in the local dialect. "You're not supposed to be here; what do you think you're doing in the girls' room, huh? Did the other boys send you up here?"

"I'm sorry," he managed past her hand. "I just...I heard singing, and it sounded like Romani—"

"Oh, so you thought you could get them to like you if you shut me up? Not happening, runt."

"No!" he whispered loudly, and froze when he thought he heard someone moving around. "No," he said, a little quieter. "That song...our daddy taught it to us. To me and and my sister. I thought maybe it was her...."

She removed her hands from his mouth, and pulled him out of the shadows. "You're the new one, aren't you?" She looked him over. "Sorry, not your sister. And anyway, don't you mean 'gypsy?' It's what everyone else calls my clan. The nicer ones, anyway."

"Nuh-_uh_! Daddy said that we're 'Romani.' Only the _gadje_ call us 'gypsies.'"

"'Us?'" She blinked and looked at him again. "You're Romani, too. What clan?"

Doyle hung his head. "I don't...I don't know. Daddy never said, before—"

"Shut up, would you?" another girl called from across the room. "Go play with your boyfriend somewhere else, and let the rest of us sleep." Then the girl fell back asleep.

The little Romani girl rolled her eyes. "She's right, though. We could get in a lot of trouble if we wake anyone else up." She thought for a moment. "Oughtn't to be anyone in the back room, only 'the Madam' keeps all the doors—"

She gave a start and stared at him. "How'd you get in here, anyway? The doors are all locked after dark; you shouldn't even have gotten out of your own room."

Doyle shrugged. "Maybe someone forgot? I just wanted to open them, so I did." He rubbed at his eyes. "Weird, though. I didn't think they were that heavy, but it made me tired for some reason."

She gave him another look, and then smiled. Even in the darkness, she looked afraid. "Maybe we should talk for a bit, then."

They crept downstairs and into an empty room, and talked about how they ended up at this place. When Doyle described some of the bullies he'd faced, the girl shook her head and said that it was typical _gadje_ ignorance, and that he shouldn't believe what they'd told him.

He told her about the woman with the two cats, and when he told her what the cats had said, she gave him that look again, but only told him that the cats were right...at least about _that_ woman.

He did not tell her about seeing his parents after.

He wasn't sure he liked this place, and not because of the other kids; he told the girl that he didn't know why, but he didn't quite trust what the woman had said about finding homes for children that needed them.

"Homes?" the girl scoffed. "What do they think _I'm_ here for, then? I _have_ a family, and a home. Just because some _gadje_ don't like the way we live doesn't mean I need a new home. I was doing just fine with my clan, until some strangers busted in and took me and some other children."

Doyle gasped. "Someone _took_ you? From your family? The people here?"

"Don't know. They might be the same ones, or they might not." She gave half a shrug. "Someone smacked me while I was asleep, and I couldn't see straight for days. My parents have probably been looking for me since, but it's been a while, and I don't know where I am, or how far I'd been taken...." She sighed, but the sound had a hint of tears. "I don't even know if they're okay."

Doyle asked her who her clan was, but before she could answer, they both jumped at a sound from outside.

The girl motioned for Doyle to head back to the room, but as the noise continued, they heard the Madam coming down. The girl looked around, and she grabbed Doyle and dragged him into the shadow under the stairs.

"What's gotten into you idiots?" the woman muttered. "Make a little more noise, why don't you, let the law find us." She yanked open the door and gasped to see a young boy in front of her.

Doyle leaned around the girl to see. The other boy was maybe a little bigger than Drew would be, but his face was all bloody and bruised. He looked like he had trouble standing, and the woman only just caught him as he fell through the doorway.

"What are _you_ doing here?" the woman demanded of the injured child. She shook from fear. "I sent you off with—"

The boy shook his head. He struggled to get to his feet. "Wasn't—" he panted. "Wasn't...a home. They...they made do stuff...work. Hard work. Three of...the others...rock fell. Those people...don't care. Just made us do more...hurt us...if we couldn't." He trembled, though Doyle and the girl couldn't tell if was fear or exhaustion. "Others...couldn't get away."

"And what are you doing _here_? I can't let them find you here, don't you realize that?"

The boy nodded. "Going...going to...find my folks. Tell them what happened. Go after those people." The woman twitched, but the boy didn't notice. He gasped a few more times before continuing. "Had to...let you know. Warn you about them. Warn you...not to let them...adopt any more kids."

The woman blinked a few times, then smiled. "Of course. Yes, of course. I thank you for the warning. I will...take care of it." She looked concerned. "But you're in no condition to travel more. Miracle enough that you've made it here. Come, you can hide here for the night, get your strength back." The boy tried to protest, and the woman cut him off. "I promise that those people will never find you here."

The boy thought it over, then let the woman lead him to another room.

Doyle and the girl looked at each other. What was that about?

**

* * *

Okay, it's official. I've completely lost all grasp of the passage of time. I must have. How else to explain that Epsilon and the rest have yet to catch up with Doyle? I mean, it's been a year, maybe a year and a half, since the avalanche.  
Although Epsilon has his own explanation, as I believe he mentions in the next chapter.**

**Thought process:  
Though some of my (older) readers may be able to guess at the precise nature of this "home"—particularly if you've ever read "Take a Thief" by Mercedes Lackey, or given that child's report, the latest Valdemar novel "Foundation"****—none of that ever becomes important as far as Doyle is concerned. Not in the generic history, anyway, and not in any of my "main" storylines. All he knew is he didn't like the place.  
I am playing with the idea of having it, or a place like it, be a little more central to a shorter story, however, one in which adult Doyle helps a pack of beggar children....  
In this respect, chunks of this arc could be taken as "relevant to one story but not to others."**


	14. Punishment

**Fernanda (chapter 13), and others who wish to know about Drew: Drew will show up in chapter 29, the last chapter of the arc following this one. I'm able to tell you the chapter, only because I'm in the process of editing old chapters, and that one has already been posted.****  
Then she'll show up a little longer in a couple chapters of the _next_ arc. After that, she will begin to play a larger role in the total history, including a few arcs all her own.  
However...as I believe I stated in the story description, this history is (or is meant to be) **_**mostly**_** about Doyle.**

**Now, then....**

**I...don't own the Secret Saturdays, Doyle, or Epsilon. I own all unnamed characters in this chapter.  
If you haven't noticed by now, my "copyright" disclaimer is chapter-based; I only specifically mention what I do or don't own when those things appear in the actual chapter.**

**The story is episodic, certain arcs or chapters relevant to one story but not always to another, some don't even **_**exist**_** within a particular storyline (and will usually be specifically noted when that happens), etc.**

* * *

Child's Plight

The woman called for all of the children to gather before breakfast. She stood in front of the basement where she'd taken the boy. "Last night, we had a visitor. A little boy that I'd found a home for months ago." She glanced over the children, watching their reactions. "These people thought he was very valuable, and gave their hearts out to him and many others that day. They gave these children homes, food, things to do. They showed these children how to show that they deserved a home." She scowled, and continued, "But this one little boy didn't want that. He took these things that were given him, and just decided to run away."

Doyle stared. _That_ wasn't what happened! The girl clamped a hand over his mouth before he could accidentally betray them; he yelped in surprise, but nodded to show he understood.

The woman didn't notice. She sighed. "I wanted to forgive him. I thought maybe I hadn't taught him well enough. He still didn't know how to be good, so I wanted to correct it." She looked sad. "But I'm afraid he was...too bad. I could not teach him to be good. But the angel could."

Doyle and the girl listened in confusion. What was the woman talking about?

"Or so I believed." The woman glanced toward the door. "The angel said he was bad for running away, too bad to teach, and the angel destroyed him."

The children whispered among themselves.

The woman smiled. "But of course, all the _rest_ of my children are good, aren't they?"

Most of the children nodded, too afraid to speak. The woman saw a few skeptical faces among them, and forced herself not to frown. "And what are good little children supposed to be doing right now?" She glanced at the door, and by the time she'd she looked back towards the children, they'd run to their chores.

—

Life went on, much as it had before. The bigger kids didn't believe in the angel and continued to torment the others. When the littler ones asked them to stop, the bigger kids got meaner yet.

No angel came to stop them, and even some of the little ones stopped believing in it.

Adults came by who wanted to see some of the children. Some children went away; most stayed behind. The two men who worked for the woman sometimes brought more children.

A few people showed interest in the little girl, but she fought to stay away from them. The woman said she was bad. The woman said people didn't like that she kept singing in that language.

The woman made her go to the basement to see the angel.

Doyle watched for her, and listened each night for her singing, but the little girl never came back up.

The children that nobody wanted—some of the other Romani, or the ones who still didn't believe in the angel, or some like those two boys that had looked at Doyle with pity—were told they were bad for other reasons and some were sent to the basement to see the angel.

None of them ever came back up.

A man came that the woman feared. He told her that he'd lost some of his kids, and needed new ones. He said he wanted to see all of the children, not just the strong ones.

The woman made the children come out and line up. The man looked all of them over, and finally stopped in front of Doyle.

He made Doyle come forward and peered at him closely. Doyle wanted the man to go away, but the man only looked at a piece of paper he carried, then looked at Doyle again.

"He just might be the one," the man muttered.

"_Him_?" the woman exclaimed. She blinked, and realized what she'd done. "Sorry, sir," she managed to stammer, "but this little one is...well, _little_. I'm not certain he could get by in your...your place. I'd hate for you to make such a bad investment."

"_I_ don't want him," the man replied with a smile, "but I've got a client who might like the looks of that one."

The woman's expression cleared. "Ah, yes. That does make a lot more sense."

"I'll see if I can contact him, get him to come by and have a look. But I think that boy is the one he wants."

Once outside, the man rejoined his associate and they began searching the alleys. "All right, you scoundrel, you guessed right. I found your kid for you, now get out here!"

"Are you...certain that it's the same one?" Epsilon asked from behind.

The man twitched, but did not jump at his surprise. He merely turned around to see the agent in the shadows, and gave a grunt of approval. "He matches the picture you gave me," he said with a shrug. "The photo's a couple years old, an' he might have changed a bit, but I'd stake my career that it's the same one."

"Then I thank you, sir," Epsilon said, digging in his pocket for a few bills. "You have been most helpful."

The man stepped back and motioned for his associate to take the money.

Epsilon smiled as they walked away. The man was suspicious and clever.

But not clever enough. Epsilon had triggered a chemical reaction the instant before he'd even handed over that photo, and when the man and his associate had leaned in to examine it, they'd both breathed in the toxic fumes.

The poison would take long enough to kill them. If, somehow, the child inside was _not_ Epsilon's target, and his superiors decided the man was still useful, one of the agents could track him down in time to give him an antidote. And if the child was the correct target...nobody would ever make the connection.

Epsilon waited until those two were out of sight before pulling out his radio. "We may have found him," he said.

"Good," said a voice on the other end. "So why don't you _get_ him? We've had to put off our research long enough."

"We have had to put it off," Epsilon replied through gritted teeth, "because Solés got impatient and lost us _six_ targets in only two missions. I don't plan to make her mistakes."

"Your plan, as I recall, is to adopt the boy, officially, was it not?" the other voice said. "We cannot afford to create a paper trail, Epsilon. We cannot afford witnesses."

"We could not afford to alienate that mercenary, but Solés did exactly that," Epsilon said with a snort. "If she'd wanted to betray us, she couldn't have planned it better. Murdering an entire household may eliminate the anticipated witnesses—never mind that she didn't even manage _that_—but it has a nasty way of _creating_ witnesses that we could never expect. The tactic has its place, but not here."

The other voice seemed to consider this. "Very well," the voice finally said. "Your superiors have already given their approval. Your...backup...is on his way. However, Epsilon? Solés lost her targets. See to it that you do _not_ do the same."

The birdman watched and seethed. _Hunt _my_ quarry, will you? All for your precious research._ Anzu fluffed up his feathers in irritation. _You people will never get what you want. Not from _him_. Not while I can interfere__._

Epsilon shook his head. He felt eyes on him and turned, but all he saw was a hawk.

—

That night, everything fell apart.

Some of the children had noticed that the woman paid more attention to Doyle. A few, conditioned only to please their masters, tried to make friends with him.

Others resented the new attention, and tested the limits of the woman's interest.

When they were given dinner, one child grabbed Doyle's plate. The child tried to shove Doyle into the others, but Doyle grabbed the other's arm and bit down hard.

Doyle tasted blood and he stumbled away from the other child. A confused mix of feelings surged in response to the taste, feelings he only half understood at best.

The woman yanked him to his feet. Doyle snapped out of his shock only to stare at her angry face.

"No!" he cried. "Please, I didn't mean it!"

The woman ignored his pleading and dragged him down into the basement.

Doyle found himself thrown into a small metal closet. He threw himself at the door, pounding and kicking until his feet and hands started bleeding, grabbing a rock and pounding with that, screaming that he was sorry, promising to be good, begging someone to open the door.

The air smelled bad and made his throat hurt. He started coughing. He collapsed, gasping for air. He reached for the rock again, and in that instant of distraction, he saw—

It was not a rock.

He wasn't aware of screaming again. He wasn't aware of anything again for some time yet to come.

**

* * *

Wow. For someone claiming to be such a fan-girl, I sure am mean to Doyle.  
Or Anzu is.  
Or...whatever.  
And I/he/whatever is not done yet.**

**By the way, does anyone have any idea how old Doyle and Drew **_**really**_** were in that flashback (from "Van Rook's Apprentice")? Or else anyone who can judge ages better than me—which is to say, anyone who can judge ages at **_**all**_**?  
My current timeline is based on the assumption that they were five and ten at that time (uh, given changes to timeline...six and eleven in this chapter), but I think I could make them a **_**little**_** younger without anything more drastic than find-replace-all.**


	15. Runaway

**I...don't own the Secret Saturdays, Doyle or his parents, or Epsilon. I own Anzu as a character, but not as the real entity. I own Aeron and everyone else in this chapter.**

**Episodic, some arcs relate to one story but not to another, differences usually noted as they come, so on and so forth.**

**Outside of Doyle's perspective (which has since been changed), I just realized this is the first chapter where I refer to the Grey Men as "grey demons." Here, I do it because Jonathon specifically called them "mahrime," which kind of/sort of/like/almost translates to "demon." Later, I do it because the people referring to them think they're dealing with _actual_ demons.  
And still later....  
**

* * *

Child's Plight

The woman was very nervous. The man in the grey trench coat stood before her, insisting that he wanted a very specific child. He'd said he'd been assured only yesterday that she had the one he wanted.

She tried to distract him by having him look over the other children; he'd agreed that one or more of them might also prove useful.

But while she tried to work out how to explain the problem to him, that boy with him explored the house. She'd last seen him heading into the basement.

"Hey, 'boss,' I think you want to see this," the boy called up.

The man in the grey coat followed the boy into the basement. They stood in front of the metal closet. "Nice," the man remarked. "World War 2?"

"A lot of these buildings are built with...with salvaged military equipment," the woman stammered. "We find that _this_," she gestured at the closet, "seals well enough to— Sir, it's not a good idea to open—"

The two ignored her, and she had no choice but to watch with growing alarm as they forced open the lock.

The man examined Doyle's prone form, and growled at the woman. She shivered; she'd seen that particular expression often enough, and wondered if the mistake would finally cost her more than a client.

How was she going to explain that the child was....

"He's alive," the man breathed in relief.

"_Alive_?" the woman replied, startled into betraying herself. The other two looked at her with wry amusement, and she cleared her throat and tried again. "I mean, why wouldn't he be? He hadn't been in time-out _that_ long."

"Why, indeed?" the man muttered as he gathered Doyle into his arms. He nodded for Aeron to go back upstairs. "Here, let's get him somewhere that I can check him over better."

The woman led them to one of the smaller bedrooms, and Epsilon laid the child down to examine him more closely. He pulled various devices out of his coat and checked Doyle's pulse, his temperature, his blood pressure, and other vital signs, and ended by shining a light in his eyes. With each reading, Epsilon's expression became more grim.

"What—_exactly_—happened?" he asked, glaring at the woman.

"What happened...when?" she mumbled back.

"To start with, why was he locked in that thing?"

"Oh...that. Well...when he'd first arrived, he.... I told him he had to...to stop biting. Only...only, he still did it. And...and so last time he bit...I had to...." She had to clear her throat several times. "And we'd found out that...that room, it's useful to separate the children if I need to...if one of them...needs discipline."

"Discipline?" Epsilon's voice was skeptical. Aeron simply rolled his eyes.

"Yes, sir. He was in...time-out. I—I don't know why he took sick, sir."

Epsilon glanced over the readings one last time, and nodded as he came to a decision. He swiftly packed up his things and started to walk off.

"So we're leaving him?" Aeron asked, only mildly curious. "All that fuss, and now we're just leaving him?"

"_I'm_ leaving him to arrange for his arrival. _You're_ staying here to keep an eye on him while I make the preparations."

"_What_?! You expect to me to play nursemaid to a little gutter rat?"

Epsilon just stared until Aeron finally dropped his gaze. "He is unwell," Epsilon said, slowly, as though Aeron were ten years younger. "He is not suited to travel; he may not make it through the first test. If _he_ is damaged, then so is his usefulness. I cannot take that risk. 'All that fuss' will be for nothing if he is too ill to serve his purpose." Epsilon smiled coldly. "With a mercenary for a father, I'd think you'd understand how important it is to get as much use as we can out of him."

"He is _not_ my father," Aeron said, habit dulling the bite in the familiar reply.

"Ma'am? This time-out thing...." The woman cringed, but Epsilon's smile warmed a trifle.

"Personally, I could care less what you do with the rest of these children. It is a waste of potential specimens, but it is not my business. But this one," Epsilon pointed at Doyle, "is mine. I would be...displeased if I should return and find him in worse shape yet."

The woman shivered at the vague threat but couldn't help replying, "And if he is, I suppose you'll turn me over to the proper authorities."

"No," Epsilon replied, looking thoughtful. "But I might track down your clients and tell them that _you've_ gone to the proper authorities." The woman's face turned white.

"Come on, boss, you can't really expect me to—" Aeron protested.

"I shouldn't be long," Epsilon interrupted. "If I'm less than a day, it'll be a new record. And Aeron.... Don't mess this up."

—

"What did you _do_ to him?"

"Besides saving his life? Very little." Anzu sensed another tirade coming and deliberately yawned. "I may have my moments, Jonathon, but I'm not _that_ cruel. What that woman did to him is not of my doing. You want to blame someone for that, you find whichever mortal first decided that your people were so much scum. I guarantee you, _that_ particular idiot did not need a god's help to come up with such an absurd notion."

Privately, Jonathon had to admit that the god had a point. "I meant what you did _after_," he said, refusing to concede. "Or _didn't_ do. You did 'very little' besides keep him alive. Would it have hurt you any to shield him better, or let us protect him? Or does this 'glorious destiny' you've got planned out require that he be half dead?"

"No," the god replied, "but it proved useful in getting your _mahrime_ to delay their hunt. Now would you be quiet? Do you really want him to wake up and see you near him?"

"That wouldn't be a problem if it wasn't for that other stunt you pulled," Anna muttered.

"_Mahrime_? What are you talking about?" Jonathon frowned at the god. He glanced over to see Anna at Doyle's side. She shook her head; her confusion matched his own.

Anzu lost his train of thought, and didn't quite understand the question. "Your grey demons, who else? That older fellow looking for...." The birdman peered at Jonathon and frowned. "I wonder.... Look over there a moment, would you?" he asked, pointing at Aeron.

"What am I supposed to be looking at?" Jonathon asked, not bothering to hide his irritation.

"Do you see anyone there?" The birdman watched the two ghosts, carefully weighing their reactions.

"I don't—wait, yes. Yes, there's someone standing there. _Why_?"

"Come now, Jonathon, you know who that is. That wayward apprentice of yours drifted off to make time with _that_ boy's mother. You've _met_ the boy."

Jonathon frowned. He looked at the boy from several angles. Anzu was right; he had met this child, he knew he had, but....

He shook his head. "I see him, but I don't recognize him. I know who you're talking about, but when I try to think of the name...." He shrugged. Jonathon still didn't understand why this was important. "I am unable to think of it. Not that I can't remember; I just...can't make sense enough to say it."

"Interesting," the god mused. "I'd heard ghosts can develop blind spots regarding their own deaths, but it's been a long time since I've seen it. And that these two are only indirectly associated, only associated with the _people_, not the _event_.... But then, it's rare for a person of your nature to resist crossing over; perhaps your magic influences the issue?"

"My lord, forgive me," Anna said, "but why does this matter? What does it mean?"

"It means, dear heart," Anzu replied, "that the two of you have no choice but to trust me to keep your boy safe."

"Trust...you?" Jonathon snarled. "After what you've done? Trust _you_ to protect _my_ son?"

"You have met this boy before, though not in the capacity that he presently serves, and you have never met that man," Anzu pointed out. "Yet both now work for the same people that killed the two of you and thought to kidnap your children. Clearly they are a threat to your son. But tell me this: My earlier stunt besides the point, could you _warn_ him of that threat?"

Anna stared. Jonathon tried to continue the argument, then realized what Anzu meant and shut his mouth with a snap. The god noted their understanding and simply nodded.

"No," Jonathon whispered in horror. "I...I would never see it coming."

"Indeed," the god replied dryly. "And now that you see the problem, I shall return to working on the solution. Unless you have any further complaints? No?"

The god considered the situation, and touched Aeron's mind to examine a certain...possibility.

_I can't believe I'm stuck here babysitting this _creature_!_

—

"I can't believe I'm stuck here babysitting this _creature_!" Aeron muttered.

Anzu smiled, for once without humor. He could not directly control a mortal's choices—the laws forbade any god from taking away free will—but like many of the gods, he'd found a legal technique with a like enough effect. He'd used to think it amusing that mortals did not question the voice in their heads.

But messing with the little Blackwell child's instincts had proven a far more interesting challenge.

He took care, as always, to suppress his own thoughts, lest the odd one turn suspicious, but such mortals were quite rare.

_Why should I waste time on him? He's a gypsy...vermin...._

"He's a _gypsy_. He's vermin—"

Even when those thoughts turned to a clearly illogical direction. This one's mother was of a gypsy clan, yet the labels did not seem to bother him.

"Why waste time on a gutter rat?" Aeron added with a snort. "Not even the sort used for experiments."

He grinned. "_I_ could give them what they wanted. I don't even need what they want for their...research. I could still tell them more than this kind of trash." He glanced back to the door. "Worthless, the lot of them," he muttered.

Anzu grew alarmed at that last thought. He'd only suggested that this Aeron should ignore the Blackwell child, but the direction these thoughts were taking.... _THIS GOES TOO FAR!!_ he shouted inside Aeron's mind, unconcerned if the mortal should finally notice the difference.

But Aeron was too wrapped up in his own plans, and Anzu's presence was all but ejected from the mortal's mind.

_Is _that_ how I look to mortals? Perhaps I should lay off the Blackwell child._ Anzu tried to shake off the nasty feel of that Aeron's mind, while he examined exactly what had gone wrong with the exchange.

And more important, how to fix it.

_What have I done?_

And Aeron, oblivious to the god's fear, made plans of his own.

—

"...awake?"

"Huh?" Doyle blinked a few times until his eyes adjusted and he could see the boy sitting by him.

"I asked if you were awake."

"Yeah," Doyle mumbled, only half awake. "Yeah, I...I think so."

"You hungry? I brought you some lunch."

Doyle struggled to roll over so he could look at the other boy. He almost passed out again from the effort.

The other boy was older, maybe about Drew's age. He looked Romani. The other Romani in these villages usually ignored him; some like that girl had been nice. None of the Romani had hurt him.

But Doyle didn't like this boy. He didn't understand what his instincts told him; his mind was still confused after being locked in the basement.

But he _did not_ like this boy.

"It, uh.... It kind of got a little cold," the other boy said, "but it should still be all right."

The boy helped Doyle sit up. Doyle took the bowl he offered, cautiously, uncertain if he'd try to take it back, uncertain _why_ he offered it. He watched the boy, watched the door, and started to take a bite....

And a memory flashed through his mind, an image of old, green bread.

_Yes, remember that__,_ the birdman thought. _Bad food, made you sick._

The other boy smiled at Doyle's wariness, but misunderstood its source. "Forget about them," he said. "The other kids have got their own lunch. Boss says I got to take care of you, so...." He smirked at some private joke. "I take care of you."

Doyle was confused. Momma and Daddy had said it was bad to waste. But the soup tasted funny, and he thought it might be bad, like that bread had been. But he was hungry, very hungry, and the other boy didn't let him stop eating.

The other boy didn't go away until the bowl was empty.

Within the hour, Doyle became violently ill.

—

_"What have you _done_?" the woman shrieked._

_"I did," the boy replied, impatiently, "what _any_ rational person would do. You don't _play_ with rats; you exterminate them. Any intelligent human being would see that as their _duty_."_

_The kitten was dazed and only vaguely aware of his surroundings. He latched onto their voices in an attempt to latch onto a semblance of reality._

_He ignored the rats around him; they squeaked in alarm, of him and the two-legged things. The rats said the two-legged things smelled of bad food, killing food. The kitten's instincts agreed, but this dream made him follow the two-legged things.  
_

_"But did you have to poison the rest of them? You've destroyed my entire livelihood...."_

_The boy snorted. "I made the stuff to kill that _gypsy_; I ain't the one who fed it to the other brats."_

_The kitten followed their voices into the dining room, and craned his neck to look around._

_If this were a normal dream, he should have woken, screaming, from the sight. But this dream did not let him wake._

_The bigger kids, the ones used to stealing the others' food, were already dead. The smaller ones were violently ill, or dying. Only the smallest ones, those too timid to fight for their meals, fared better._

_They would not last much longer._

_The other boy walked back towards the kitchen._

_"Where are you going?" the woman asked._

_"To check on the pest," the boy called over his shoulder, "get him another dose if he needs it. Be a waste of good food if the brat's still alive when the Boss comes by." The boy paused. "Oh, you might want to be gone before he comes to pick me up. He's got more control than most of them, but...he's still got kind of a temper."_

_"No way in _hell_ you're going anywhere," the woman snarled. "_You're_ staying here to explain to my clients—"_

_"I have been patient with you long enough. You are nothing to me; your clients are nothing to me. That gypsy brat is _less_ than nothing...but I have a job to do, so _move aside_."_

_"_No_!" the woman shrieked and grabbed for the boy. "You—"_

_The boy pulled out a small object that crackled with lightning. He hit the woman with it, and she shrieked in pain, and collapsed with a smell of burnt skin._

_"Why do they make me put _up_ with these idiots?" the boy muttered._

_He heard a noise and glanced down. His eyes widened, then narrowed, and he took a step towards the kitten....  
_

—

Doyle woke, trying to scream, and collapsed into a fit of coughing. He clutched at his side, where it felt like someone had kicked through his ribs. He gasped at the pain, and went into another coughing fit.

He finally lay there, too exhausted to do more than shiver violently, from sick, from cold, from fear.

"Feeling better?"

The voice made him jump. Doyle looked up with a gasp to see that the other boy had returned.

"Hmm...." The other boy set down the bowl and came to peer at Doyle. "Whoa. You're worse than I thought. Here, maybe you should eat more."

He tried to hand Doyle the bowl, but Doyle cowered away. "Nuh-uh. It's bad food, poisoned."

The other boy lifted an eyebrow. "Poisoned? Where'd you get an idea like that?" He glanced over at where Doyle had been sick. "Oh, is that all? You just ate too fast."

"Rats...rats told me," Doyle forced through chattering teeth. "An' I saw you, I heard you talking." His instincts screamed at him to shut up, but in his feverish state, he was hardly aware of what he was doing.

"Rats told you?" the boy interrupted with a laugh. "You sure have some vivid dreams. Now, come on—"

"_No_! I heard you, you _poisoned_ it! You said you wanted to kill me, 'cause I'm a gypsy, an' you killed the other kids, too—"

The other boy's eyes went wide, then narrowed. "You heard all that, did you?"

Even in his fever, Doyle realized he'd said too much. He struggled to move...he was so tired, sick, he felt weak.... He'd managed to get his top half out of bed and onto the floor, when the other boy jumped on top of him, pinning him in that awkward position.

Doyle tried to twist free, but all he managed was to turn himself to see what the other boy was doing.

The other boy pulled out an object that crackled with lightning. He yanked Doyle's head up by the hair, and pressed the object against Doyle's neck.

Doyle started screaming. The object sent him into convulsions.

He started to lose consciousness....

Doyle felt the 'pard's mind against his own. His eyes snapped open, green and glowing like the 'pard's had been.

Doyle thrashed his way free, fell onto the floor, and tumbled until he hit the wall. He backed into corner, watching the boy, crouched on all fours, baring his teeth, shaking in fear.

Doyle wasn't big, not the like the other 'pard had been. He was only a cub. But he could still put up a fight. If he could at least scare the boy off....

The boy hesitated at this strange behavior. He finally decided that Doyle had simply gone mad and obviously needed to be put down.

He never noticed Doyle's eyes.

—

Epsilon surveyed the damage with only mild interest. Most of the children were dead from poisoning. The woman was nowhere to be found.

And what of Epsilon's own charges?

Epsilon found Aeron in the room he'd left Doyle in. Aeron was unconscious; the taser that the boy held seemed a likely culprit, though he didn't have a mark on him.

Rather, he didn't have any marks from the taser. Epsilon examined him more closely. Aeron was covered in scratches and bite marks.

Epsilon frowned. That woman had mentioned that Doyle had bitten other children, and these marks were clearly human, but the patterns suggested behavior that was...not.

The agent stood back up. This quarry was getting more interesting all the time. Epsilon documented all of the marks before attempting to wake Aeron.

"Uh? Ow...." Aeron moaned. "What—what happened?"

"I was hoping _you_ could tell me," Epsilon replied.

"Um...." Aeron cringed from the agent's expression.

"What. Did. You. _Do_?" Epsilon snarled.

"Uh...pest control?"

Aeron found himself slammed against the wall, his collar twisted in Epsilon's hands so that he could barely breathe. "You sure..." he choked out. "You sure...you wanna...do that?" Epsilon twisted Aeron's collar harder for a moment. Aeron coughed and gasped. But when he looked back at Epsilon, he only smiled. "My...my 'dad'...won't like it if...if som'un...attacked me. You wouldn't want...him knowing...would you?"

Epsilon was half-tempted to crush the boy's throat, but forced himself to drop Aeron. He paced back and forth, trying to get his temper under control, before he could trust himself to speak again.

Aeron smirked, amused that there was some use to having that mercenary as a step-father. _And won't Van Rook be please to hear _that_?_

"Listen to me, you little brat! My people have been trying to get hold of this bloodline since before that boy's _father_ was a child. You cannot _begin_ to imagine how valuable this research is. Now I want you to answer me very carefully. Mercenary or no, how long you live may depend on your answers. Now tell me _what happened_?"

Aeron realized Epsilon was being serious. Whatever they wanted from the gutter rat was _far_ more valuable than his own connection to Van Rook. He shivered.

"He acted weird," Aeron replied. "Like an animal. Like he'd gone mad, a mad dog. He attacked me. I tried to zap him," he hefted the taser, "to keep him quiet, only he must've gotten it for a moment."

At Epsilon's request, he went into detail of what he could remember of the fight. He chose not to reveal that he'd tried to kill Doyle first, though it wouldn't have surprised him if Epsilon had already figured that out.

Epsilon nodded. _He'd behaved like an animal__._ That, at least, confirmed his speculation about the bite marks. And it was more evidence of one of their theories.

Aeron might have tried to eliminate the specimen, but he'd gained useful information in the process.

"Where is he now?" Epsilon asked.

"I don't...I don't know. Maybe he ran off after he zapped me."

"Wonderful," Epsilon growled. "Just great."

**

* * *

One of my longest chapters yet! And that after I split it off from the previous two. Whew!**

**Thus ends the "Child's Plight" arc. Things will go much better for Doyle in the next one.  
Well, except for that one incident....  
And it's really only "better" from our perspective...er, sort of; Doyle isn't exactly equipped any more to tell if things are going well beyond knowing he's still alive. That in spite of the advice that cat had given him a few chapters ago.  
And I could also see why some readers may not think things are going better....  
**

**Oh, darn. I hadn't planned on doing Doyle's "big reveal" for another couple of arcs yet.  
Oh, well. The generic history has at least **_**one**_** of Doyle's secrets left...at least if my hints were suitably subtle. Certain other stories have yet more of his secrets.  
I haven't quite worked out when _he_ should be aware of the nature of these secrets, though, but I do have a few scenes in mind.**

**Thought process:  
The business with the poison was one of only two specific traumas I'd originally thought to use in Doyle's childhood (even before I'd started in the whole starvation scenario), though I don't quite remember where I made that decision.  
Unlike the other specific trauma—which will come up in a few more arcs—the poisoning bit was originally nothing more than a vague allusion.  
Also, the original version of the "poisoning" bit had one of the resident children deciding that it was his responsibility to help rid the world of all gypsies (and Doyle was, by then, the only intended target). Once I started using Aeron as an original character, instead of an extra with a speaking part, I started to see exactly what sort of person he was, and decided **_**he**_** should play that role. Especially given the situation with the Grey Men.**

**As to the change: I didn't quite like the way the thing with the rats turned out in the first version. That scene still happens in this one; I just tried to tweak it a little.  
(And for those who remember her from way back in Chapter 7...the kitten in this chapter has nothing to do with Mau. It actually has a lot more to do with the cats Doyle met a few chapters back, but it wasn't one of _those_ cats, either.)  
Again, sorry if you'd already read this chapter.  
**


	16. Lessons

**Well.... I'm not sure what it was that Dottie Princess didn't like about the wood carving thing in Waking Nightmare. However, I can no longer work that one out of the story: the wood carving thing, and the reason I came up with it in the first place, **_**starts**_** in this very chapter.  
Sort of, anyway. I originally came up with the wood carving thing in one of the many rewrites of the first chapter of my Sierra story, and had eventually worked the detail in to Doyle's childhood.**

**I don't own Doyle or The Secret Saturdays. I do own the animals that are behaving strangely.**

**Episodic, some chapters/arcs may relate to one story but not to others, so on and so forth.**

**Doyle will not be named in this and a few following chapters. There is a reason for this, which will be revealed in chapter 21. That being the case, it should be fairly easy (at least in this chapter) to see who's perspective a given line is written in, just by how I refer to him.  
**

**Timing: (Looks at first three lines of this chapter, raises one eyebrow at the readers.) Do I _really_ need to tell you that?  
Say, about two calendar years following the Avalanche arc.**

**Demon (chapter 15): I was wondering the same.  
*sigh*  
I suppose I should be glad they're not flaming me or something for how Doyle's been treated....  
(Mirrors Demon's wary glance.)  
**

* * *

Stray

It was a year since he first lost his mind.

A year since that boy had tried to kill him. A year since, in desperation, he'd felt his spirit change.

A year since he'd forgotten that he was ever human.

He remembered that the boy had tried to poison him, but knew little else of the attack. He'd fled into the woods, surviving as the animals did.

Or trying to.

The animals perceived him, not as he was, but as he believed himself to be. Though he was only a cub, he was a predator the likes of which no creature around wanted to face. Prey seemed scarcer than ever.

Though he hungered still, he refused to seek food among the humans again. He perceived them as a threat, and shied away even from the farms he encountered, though their flocks should have fallen easily even to his inexperienced hands.

It was that inexperience, and those hands that lacked the usual weapons, that forced him to remember that he was human.

As that memory gradually returned, so, too, did the other animals' ease at his presence. They still did not see him as human; they never had. But neither did they see the predator that he'd thought he was.

Though the animals accepted him again, most did not help him. That was hardly surprising. Many had families of their own to feed, and could not afford to help the competition. The weakest of them sought to chase him from his meals; the strongest simply ignored him. Some creatures, also, were known for consuming their own kind; only his size kept them from seeing _him_ as prey. Those that dared the human villages were old or sick; they'd grown dependent upon the humans, and could not aid him for long if they'd wanted to.

None were cruel as the humans were; all needed food as he did.

But there were some, aged yet strong, and without families to support, that chose to aid any young that they thought their own kind.

From the birds and the plant eaters, he learned which plants were safe and which were not, and how to evade predators. The snakes taught him to recognize which of their number was poisonous. The rabbits, foxes, and other small creatures taught him to dig for roots or grubs.

Those creatures that ate meat taught him how to catch even the most evasive prey, and how to know, whether by sick or other reason, that the prey was too dangerous to catch. And he learned other lessons besides.

Even the earth and the plants gave him aid, as shelter from the weather or protection from parasites and sickness, until he learned to survive in nearly any environment.

The lessons were slow, though he learned quickly enough; he simply lacked the strength to accomplish many of their tasks. His human body meant he often had to improvise on what was natural for them. His teachers, in their turn, had learned to put up with the strangeness of it.

The animals usually perceived him each according to their own natures, except when they taught him. At these times, they perceived him, not according to their natures or his, but according to that of his teachers. A rabbit, for instance, would normally see a young rabbit, or a sparrow would think him an unfledged sparrow...but when a wolf taught him to hunt those animals, then all would see a wolf cub.

Among all of their lessons, this one of perception alone he failed to learn, and thus he did not learn to control it.

When he became truly desperate, his spirit would change again, and would sometimes wander while he slept. When his spirit wandered, they perceived him again as he thought himself to be, and he could follow their lessons as one of their own. When he forgot he was human, he was no longer bound by what the human body could do. But when he forgot he was human, his human body no longer kept him safe.

But under their tutelage, he grew and learned. And his spirit did not need to wander so often.

—

The boy struggled with the piece of wood, scraping at it and shaping it with the rock, repeating another mantra in one of the Romani dialects.

The fox waited nearby, and watched with the patience of any hunter who did not yet comprehend what he saw.

It was not strange for kits to play with rocks or wood or bones from old kills. Even adults frequently took such toys. But this thing of shaping the wood was strange; the old fox had never heard of a kit making his own toy.

Once the kit had explained his toys; the notion was still strange, but not as much. _All_ predators needed to understand their prey before they could hunt. This strange kit had simply found a different way to understand them.

Most predators learned to understand their prey by pure observation. They watched how the prey moved, watched what it did, watched how others hunted it.

Most predators had the luxury to learn from their own elders like the foxes, or else were the self-reliant sort that could take small prey easily with little more than a bite as the snakes often did.

Most predators were not half-starved fosterlings who couldn't last through their first cold snap, were it not for those like the fox that sought to teach them at the Creators' behest, in lieu of creating their own families.

And most predators were not misshapen orphans who relied on magic to make up for their shortcomings. Magic was common enough; all life had it, and used it as easy as breathing, as passive and unnoticed—even to the user—as a heartbeat. Those who had the talent to use it actively were few enough; those that needed to fewer yet.

The fox did not have that skill, but the kit was full of the scent, as were these wood-shapes he made. What worried the fox was that the kit didn't smell it himself.

_But who am I to question the will of the Lord and Lady?_ was the tone of the fox's thoughts. He'd chosen this path when he was born, and he'd continue to accept it as long as he lived. He could seek a mate and raise a family any time he wanted, but until he made that choice, he may as well be barren.

He sighed. He would teach such fosterling kits as had nobody else, for as long as the Lord and Lady Creators asked him.

Including misshapen orphans that actively used magic without knowing it.

The boy glanced up at the sigh and smiled wryly. "Sorry, I'm almost done," he said. The fox twitched his ears twitched at the human voice, but ignored the words, understanding instead the meaning of the thoughts.

The boy usually waited until after his lessons to work on these carvings; the better to add what he learned to the shapes, he'd figured. But the lake had frozen over, and today the fox was going to show him how to get at the fish under the ice.

_This_ carving, a fish, was simple enough, and the boy thought he could finish it soon—so long as he didn't snap it in half like some of the others. He wanted to get it done before the lessons left him too tired. Besides, now that it'd turned cold, it could help to work some warmth into his fingers before the lesson began.

He scraped a few more slivers away and held up the piece of wood. "There!" The fox came over to sniff at it. "Well, what do you think?"

_Shape seems good enough__,_ the fox replied. _But it just smells like wood...and you._

"I haven't used it yet. You can't smell what it's _for_," the boy replied, but he smiled shyly; he couldn't even pretend to feel resentful. His teachers were not in the habit of praising him when he did only as well as they, though they never denied him encouragement to do better. That the fox had approved of the shape—even with that remark about the scent—was high praise indeed.

_Ready?_ the fox asked.

The boy stood up and stretched a bit, loosening himself for another workout. "Yep."

—

The boy set his carving down, a little ways from the lake, and the fox proceeded with his instructions.

The fox showed him how to move on the ice, and how to test the ice for strength. The fox did _not_ need to explain why this was important: too strong, and the boy would never break through for the fish; too weak, or if he moved wrong, he could fall in.

Eventually they found a spot, just a little ways in, where they agreed it was safe for the boy—who was quite a bit heavier than the fox—to chip away at the ice.

As the boy worked, the fox continued to instruct him, making him back off now and then to warm his furless body up or to test the ice again. The boy had had to abandon the task three times to find another spot, where the ice wasn't quite so thin and weak.

The boy paused to wipe the sweat from his face. This was hard work. He didn't find it strange that most animals slept a lot in the winter. There was never any guarantee that one could find food, but at least in the warmer months, you could get at the food easier when you found it. The boy had counted maybe five fish close enough for him to see, but not a one close enough to grab even if he could get through the ice.

And not a one bigger than a mouthful, even if he could catch them. The boy glanced down at the fox digging along side of him; lessons or not, he'd just about decided he might go hungry today, and forget this business with the ice.

A huge shadow moved under the ice. The boy and the fox both jumped back in surprise, then the fox went back to digging, more eager than before. The boy watched the shadow...and another one, and another...then returned to the work with the same enthusiasm the fox showed.

_These_ fish were much bigger; one of them might be a meal between him and the fox, easy. And they were swimming close the ice. The fox didn't understand that—the bigger fish usually stayed on bottom—but didn't care to question it.

The boy worked at the ice, his weariness forgotten at the thought of a meal, the sight of more shadows under the ice driving him to work faster, forgetting everything else in the hopes of catching just _one_ of these fish....

The fox abruptly stopped digging and scented the air. _Magic_. The fox smelled magic. The kit's magic, coming from that shaped bit of wood.

The fox crept off the ice to investigate. He sniffed at the piece of wood, touched it with his nose, only to jump back in shock. _It moved__!_ No, it couldn't; it was just a piece of wood. _But...._ The fox sniffed it again. It smelled of magic, strong magic, _active_ magic.

It moved again, briefly, like a fish, then was still.

No, it hadn't moved; the light had just shined on it, made it shine like scales, made it _look_ like it moved, like the fish under the ice moved.

The fox spun around to stare at the ice. More shadows swam up, more than normal. Even were the lake full, there would never be so many so close to the surface.

The fox glanced at the piece of wood. Did it..._call_ them? He sniffed it again. Yes, it did. It called the fish.

The kit broke a hole into the ice, just large enough to get a paw through. But when he reached in, the fish darted away.

The fox cocked his head and thought. The wood piece _called_ the fish...but it didn't help catch them. So the kit still had to work for his meal. It was a clever bit of work, just the same.

The fox gave a mental shrug, and stepped back out onto the ice....

And heard a _CRACK_!

More shadows swam towards the ice, too large shadows, too many shadows. They broke at the ice from underneath.

The fox barked out a warning.

The boy looked up in only mild surprise; there was no time for more.

Because the ice shattered beneath them.

**

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**

**Did I say things would be going better for Doyle? (Checks previous chapter.)  
Yup. And this chapter is not that "one incident" I referred to. The thing is, considering _why_ things have been going badly, I don't think this chapter qualifies as "going badly."  
What I _meant_ was that things would go better in this arc, in terms of _why_ they've been going poorly for him.**

**Did that make sense?  
**

**Hmm, did I give away the whole "animals behave strangely" business yet?  
Nope. Still one more secret, waiting until the next arc. And maybe more secrets, waiting for other stories.  
I just attempted to clarify certain things in this one, is all.**

**Wouldn't it be funny if Jay Stephens had a similar idea, though? Wonder how that'd work out in official canon...?  
*shrug*  
Of course, I wonder how **_**any**_** of my ideas would work out within canon. I'm sure, even if JS thought up something similar, it still wouldn't work quite the way I'm doing it. There **_**is**_** a reason I gave my story a "T" rating, and I've had to throw out some ideas just to keep it that low.**

**I wonder if I managed to get the messages across that I tried to bury in this chapter?  
Don't know, and I can't even ask about my specific concerns without influencing reader interpretation.**

**....**

**....**

**....  
**

_**Dang it**_**!  
Hey, can any of you read my mind? Find some way to review for my specific concerns **_**without**_** me asking pointed questions?  
Anyone? **_**Please**_**?  
Seriously, though, I think there's supposed to be a way to ask such questions as I need without influencing readers...I'm just not sure what it is.**


	17. The Hunter

**I don't own Doyle or The Secret Saturdays.  
I do own Benton, Corbin Revan (look up the meaning to find the pun) and his son Zander, and Faizura "Fae" Tailor.**

**Episodic, blah, blah, blah. You know the drill.**

**Again, Doyle is not named. The reason will be mentioned in Chapter 21. He should not be named until Chapter 23.  
**

**Demon (chap 16): What _kind_ of cookies?  
**

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Stray

The boy woke up shivering.

The first thing he noticed was that he couldn't move; something large was wrapped around him.

The second thing he noticed, when he tried to move, was that the something was much warmer than outside.

He actually paused his struggles, trying to decide if he should just burrow deeper into this wonderful warmth.

Caution won over comfort, and he pulled free just enough to look around.

The warm thing wrapped around him proved to be a pile of blankets; nearby, the fox was similarly covered.

They were still by the lake, but the snow had been cleared away. A fire burned just a little ways off.

That fire worried him. Rocks surrounded it so it couldn't spread; it didn't burn high enough to burn the trees above. It didn't _look_ dangerous; it didn't look _natural_.

It looked controlled. And a controlled fire meant....

"You're finally awake," the man said. He smiled, apparently unaware that the boy had spooked. "I'd started to think you meant to hibernate."

The man stood up, with the slow, practiced movements of a hunter who did not want to startle his prey. He walked around the fire, toward the boy.

The boy stumbled free of the blankets and backed away from the man...and immediately froze. He knelt on the cold ground, shivering, his arms wrapped around his body as he tried to figure out why he didn't have any clothes on.

The man reacted with alarm, though he tried to avert his gaze. The man took another step towards him, and the boy backed away again, keeping the fire between them, though just to the side, so he could watch the man without blinding himself. The man halted, mid-step.

The fox watched with mild curiosity. It waited to determine if the boy was in danger of more than freezing.

"Please," the man said. "Please, boy, get back in the blankets. You...your clothes are still too wet, and...and you'll freeze like that." He pointed at the blankets, still moving slowly. "Blankets, warm. You understand?" He took a step back and pointed at where the boy's clothes lay, on one of the rocks near the fire. "Wet, cold." He pointed at the blankets again. "_Warm_," he repeated.

The boy made no move, and the man pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to ward off a migraine. He gave the boy another cautious glance, then frowned in thought. There was something familiar about this boy; the man had never met him, but he seemed to recall hearing about a kid matching this one's description.

The man glanced around, and his eyes fell on the boy's wet clothing. _Fae_. That outfit was one of Fae Tailor's. Then this boy must be....

This boy must be that Gypsy lad she'd tried to help a year back.

The man grimaced; he did _not_ know the language as well as he'd like to. But the surest way to fail was to refuse to try.

The man tried a few different dialects until the boy reacted in surprise. The man took a deep breath, thanked whatever gods were listening, and, haltingly, with care given to every word, he repeated his request.

The boy shivered, decided he was too cold and weak to try to run away, and burrowed into the blankets again. Neither he nor the fox took their eyes off of the man.

The boy's instincts were quiet through the entire ordeal.

The man breathed a sigh of relief. He took another few steps in the boy's direction, pausing a few times to be sure the boy wasn't going to bolt on him.

After what felt like an eternity to him, yet less than an instant to the boy, the man reached his target, and he reached into the flames to grab the pot he'd left cooking there. He took a cautious sniff of the contents—it was not yet in danger of burning—and poured some out into a small cup.

He approached the boy, carefully, step by step, holding the cup out in front of him. The boy cringed at his nearness, and the man placed the cup on the ground and backed away.

"It's food," the man said, pointing at the cup. "Food, eat. You need _food_. Powers alone know how much you need food," he added with a mutter. "I can count your ribs from back here." He sat down to watch the boy.

The fox shrugged off the other blankets and investigated the cup. When it tried to take a taste of the contents, the man stood up and tried to shoo it away. "Here, now, scat! I got food enough for you, too, but I don't see _your_ ribs showing!" His efforts were limited, at best; he did not dare to spook the boy again. "Go on, get out of there!"

The fox jerked its head up and snarled at him. The man just shook his head and took another step, and then the fox made its move.

The fox leaped between the man and the boy, a more tangible shield than the fire had been. Its teeth were bared, its muscles tense; even the light in its eyes spoke of violence held in check. And it _snarled_ at the man.

And, most perplexing, the boy imitated that expression to a degree, though the fear remained.

The man held up his hands in surrender and sat down again, one eye on the fox and the child.

The fox's lips relaxed, and it returned to investigating the cup, one eye remaining on the man.

Only after the fox took a taste, and curled up beside the boy, now with _both_ eyes on the man, did the boy even _look_ at the cup.

The boy sipped from the cup, slowly, watching the man as intently as the fox did.

As soon as the boy finished the cup, the man refilled it, with the same, slow proceedings, and the same process played itself out. The boy absolutely refused to consider the food before him unless the fox had tried it first.

And that was very strange behavior for someone who needed food that badly. That he would eat slowly was nothing strange; it showed intelligence that he would not stuff himself after the gods only knew how long that he'd practically starved. But to refuse to touch it at all?

Perhaps it wouldn't have been so strange if the fox took more than a taste; some animals were accustomed to taking turns at their meal. But this boy would not touch the food unless the fox had tasted it first...and that was _all_ the fox did.

The process played itself out with another refill, and on the fourth helping, the boy ignored the cup entirely as the fox licked it clean.

The boy pointed at his clothing where the man had laid them. "Dry?" he asked.

The man nearly jumped. He'd started to wonder if the boy could speak. He stared for a moment, then bent down to pick up the clothing. "Dry enough, I suppose," he replied, "but they're nothing but rags." He dropped the garments in front of the boy, near enough that the boy would not have to reach for them, far enough that the man would not need to get too close. He averted his gaze while the boy dressed.

"Listen, kid, you can't go on wearing those for long. They're hardly more than rags; you'll catch your death wandering around out here like that." He took a quick glance to see if the boy was done, and turned around. "Look, I've got a friend who makes clothes like that. Er...like what those _were_. Fae's a good person, and she'll give you better clothing. And I've got other friends in the village who—"

The boy jerked his head up at the word "village." He stared at the man in renewed fear, and then he and the fox ran off almost before the man could react. There was nothing left to suggest they'd been there at all.

_Almost_ nothing. The man fingered the wood carving he'd seen the boy playing with earlier. It had seemed special to the boy, somehow, and even the fox had treated it with caution. The man had retrieved it so it wouldn't get damaged.

And the boy had left before the man could give it back.

The man swore under his breath and went looking for the child.

—

The boy could only lay there for a time, shaking at the memory of the encounter. That man, that _human_, had come upon him, and had wanted to take him to the village.

And not once had the boy's instincts kicked in. They'd _never_ let him walk into danger so easily! Why now?

_Next time_, the fox told him, _I teach you to swim._ The fox cocked his head. _But perhaps no fishing until the air is warm again._

The boy simply nodded his agreement, too shaken to speak. That man—

The thought set him shaking again.

_Why did we run?_ the fox asked. _We are not hunted._

"Because," the boy replied slowly, "it was dangerous." He rubbed his arms, trying to ward off the chill air. "My instincts never let me walk into danger before. But they didn't warn me, this time."

_Maybe you couldn't hear the ice crack,_ the fox replied, _over your stomach._

The boy flushed at the gentle scolding. What the fox said was true; he had only focused on the thought of a meal. His instincts could have been shrieking at him about the ice, and he wouldn't have noticed.

He shook his head. "Not the lake. The _man_. The human. He snuck up on me. Why didn't my instincts warn me about _him_?"

_Because he's not dangerous?_ the fox suggested, unable to understand the boy's fear. _Least if you're not food, or not trying to hurt _him_, anyhow._

The boy looked at the fox curiously. "What do you mean?"

_That one...I've seen him out here. So have others. He's got claws, but he doesn't use them except to hunt, or to keep out of other claws._

The boy frowned. That sounded a lot like what the cat had tried to tell him a year ago.

But the fox wasn't done. _And he doesn't hunt more than he needs to feed himself, or them as can't hunt their own meat. Or else he hunts one of them as whose minds have gotten sick, and they can't think right and they start killing for no reason._

The boy was still skeptical. "And who's to say except them like him whether the one he's hunting is sick?"

The look the fox gave him seemed offended. _The Lord and Lady Creator, of course__,_ the fox grumbled. _Them as created _all_ life, and tell us what we're allowed to hunt, and how much, so we don't get greedy and make others go hungry. They get _mad_ when one of their own tries to break the rules._

The boy shivered. He'd felt what it's like to have humans mad at him; he didn't want to imagine the anger from something as powerful as this Lord and Lady the animals respected so much.

_If you don't trust the two-legs, at least trust the Lord and Lady's judgment._ The fox jerked his head in the direction of the lake. _That two-leg is one of theirs. So are others that live around more that aren't two-legs. Such as _them_ respect the Lord and Lady's wishes, even if other two-leggers don't. They're as like one who aren't two-legger as you can get and still be two-legger._

"But that's the _problem_," the boy said. "They're still human...still two-leggers."

The fox cocked his head and watched the kit. _Wasn't a problem when you ate the food he put in front of you._

"I wouldn't have eaten it if you hadn't told me it was okay."

_And you stuck around a long time for being afraid of him._

"I was too tired to run away, and I would've frozen if I'd tried." But the boy's arguments sounded weak to his own ears. Who was he trying to convince?

The fox sighed. _Come here._ The kit got up and crawled over. The fox stretched out to expose the nape of his neck. _Touch, feel__._

Curious, the boy patted the fox in the indicated spot, and found it thick with old scars.

_When I was a kit, I was mobbed by crows. It was the first time I'd ever seen them, and when they attacked me, it frightened me. I wanted nothing more than to run away. But I could not escape the mob, could scent nothing except crow._ The fox shuddered at the memory. _But I was also curious. I waited until I had healed enough to move, and no longer, and I sought out the crows, to learn why they had attacked. I spent many months watching them, to learn their ways._

"And?"

_I still do not know their reason for the attack. But I learned that they sometimes caught their own prey...and sometimes left things behind, things that they couldn't eat. I'd kept myself fed off of some of their leavings, and they sometimes feed themselves off of mine._

The boy struggled to understand the fox's point.

_Kit, you fear these humans. Some of them hurt you, and you wish to run away from them. I understand that. And that was once possible. But no creature can avoid the two-leggers forever, save for them that are eaten young. Not any more. If you would survive, you _must_ expect to face the two-leggers again. Wouldn't you rather deal with them on your own terms?_

The boy wrapped his arms around his knees and rocked back and forth while he thought over what the fox had said. It reminded him—too much—of something he remembered his dad teaching them.

Daddy had told them that running away from a threat is okay; better to run when you can, fight only when you must. But he'd also said that if you kept running, you'd never know if the thing behind you would keep on chasing you into a trap. Best to find a place to hide, to _watch_ what chased you, to know how to deal with it.

_Was that what they meant?_ the boy wondered. _They died because I was scared? Because I wanted to run away? Is _that_ why they were mad at me?_

He buried his face in his arms. The shaking continued for some time, but it was not from fear alone.

The fox waited until he fell asleep, then licked the tears from his face so they would not freeze.

—

"—I'm telling you, the kid was _afraid_ of me," Benton repeated.

It had been more than a week since he'd seen the kid, and he'd continued to search, even when his job took him far from that lake. He'd asked Fae about the kid, asked questions in the villages, even asked about him with that Ghost Clan.

So far, no luck. Nobody knew anything he could use. And those that did, weren't talking.

"So? You ain't exactly the sort that all kids love," the young boy called from his room. "And what do you mean by coming here and not even saying 'hi,' huh?"

Benton poked his head into Zander's room to see the boy sitting up in bed. "Hey, Zanadu." Zander grinned weakly at the nickname. "Ain't you supposed to be trying to sleep?"

"How can I, with you shouting so much?" But Zander obediently laid down.

"He does have a point," Zander's father stated, shooing Benton back downstairs.

Zander got up and snuck after them.

"Yeah, sorry, Corb," Benton replied. "Is he—is he doing any better?"

"He's...he doesn't seem to be getting _worse_, but no." Corbin sighed and shook his head. "But that wasn't what I meant. Zander likes having you around, but you know how some of these villagers are about hunters like you. They'll buy the meat you bring in ready enough, but they see you for a savage, practically an animal, and they teach their children to look at you the same way."

"Aye, and I know how those idiots are about _Gypsies_, too," Benton growled under his breath. "It's just the way he looked at me," he added, more loudly, "It's more than that, more than _just_ fear. Like he...I don't know...."

"Like he'd never seen a human before?" Corbin suggested. "Like some kind of modern Tarzan? Or maybe Mowgli? Only instead of apes or wolves, he's got foxes." He smiled. "Honestly, Benton, I'm starting to wonder if maybe you _do_ spend too much time alone." Benton didn't respond to the familiar joke, and Corbin's smile faded.

Benton's expression remained grim. "He looked at me...like your animals used to look at people, before you got to work on them." Corbin froze, and stared at him. "Like some of them...like too many of them...still do."

"Oh," Corbin said, his shock slowly turning into smoldering anger. "Oh. _That_...kind of fear."

Benton nodded. "Corb...I don't know what to do. I mean...I had no problem going after the creep that made Viper the way _he_ is," he added, rubbing at his arm where Corbin's aptly named stallion had bitten him again. They often joked that Corbin had never trained that mean streak out of him because it made him better than a guard dog, but both of them knew the damage was beyond repair. "And I'd do it again, jail time and all. I'd _love_ to make a red smear out of whoever put that look on the kid's face, but I know that ain't going to help anyone but me."

"Bring him here," Zander said.

Both men looked up towards the stairs.

Zander shrugged. "Dad fixes up all the other strays that come in. Most are fine with us, even if they're still skittish around other people. Why not a human stray?"

"Zander, your know I appreciate your confidence," Corbin replied, "but we don't even know if this kid is still alive."

Zander just watched them, and refused to say another word.

Benton frowned. "Could you?"

"Huh?" Corbin had to pull himself away from his son's attempt to stare him down.

"If I found him...if the kid is still alive. If I brought him here, _could_ you try to fix him up? I'd...I'd do it myself, Corb, but you know I don't have that kind of patience."

"I'd think a hunter of your caliber," Corbin replied with a snort, "would have more patience than anyone."

"You know what I mean. You also know that I've got as bad a temper as anybody." Benton sighed in disgust. "All it'd take is one thing to go wrong—and it wouldn't even have to be the kid, it could be someone I'm going after for some other injustice. An instant, and anything I could have accomplished would be _gone_."

Corbin nodded. "If the kid is alive, and _if_ you manage to bring him here—without kidnapping him, mind...." He thought for a moment. "I'd say that'd be half the battle right there. You do that, and sure, I'll do whatever I can."

—

Benton continued to search for the child, even when common sense said it was impossible.

He could not simply stop hunting, and his job took him _far_ from where he'd last seen the kid. Even if the child was alive, there was no way to know if he'd gone the same direction Benton had...and no way he could've gotten so far if he'd tried.

But Benton did not give up.

At least he had one less thing to focus on. Part of his job was easier of late. Almost eerily so. He'd had a run of good luck with fishing, and caught more than enough to retire early for the season and move on to other game.

It was strange, though. Nobody else seemed to be having this luck. It was good luck, but not _luck_. It wasn't like the fish turned stupid and jumped into his nets; more like there were a lot more fish to catch.

Not so many that the odds of catching one shifted in his favor, either, but like he'd discovered some miracle lure that he didn't even know he was using. Without his skill, that "miracle lure" would've meant nothing. It took all his skill to _use_ that luck. There were times enough that he would've lost his net or pole if he didn't know what he was doing; other times that the luck would have drowned a less skilled fisherman.

He shuddered at one such near-miss, and wondered if the kid had fallen in because of such "luck."

But he caught the fish, in surplus, and he used that surplus as a bargaining chip. He gave sellers in the villages slight discounts, offered a spare fish or two to those who might have information. He gave extra to those who _needed_ it, of course; surplus always went first to those in need. But just this once, he played the market as well as he knew how.

And when he had no more fish to sell, he moved on to other game, far in advance of other hunters.

The deer he hunted were scarce enough; his strange luck with the fish gave him an early lead over other hunters, but it no longer seemed to follow him.

Benton didn't mind. That early lead helped; it meant more meat he could bring to those who couldn't afford it, and more bribes in the form of discounts.

All the while, he'd left things in his camp when he went hunting. An outfit he'd gotten from Fae; portions of his catch; once he'd left out a knife, though he'd struggled for hours over that decision. _Some_one took these things, and he could only hope it was the boy, but he never caught a glimpse. Nobody took the wood carving of the fish, though he left it with the other things.

And all the while, he prayed to the various Lords and Ladies of the Animals and the Hunt, from Hindu Pashupati, to Greek Artemis, from the Christian saint Hubertus to the Wiccan Horned God. He prayed for even a sign that the boy was all right.

The day after he'd left the knife, he returned to his camp to find a little wooden deer.

**

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**

**Please, people, constructive reviews.  
I'm human. I'm not perfect. I appreciate the various statements about the quality of my work, and the requests to update. But I'm human. I'm not perfect. I would also appreciate things that help me to _improve_ my work.  
Even if it's just to point out grammatical or spelling errors that I somehow overlooked.  
Like that line where I said "the stood up" or "the man reacted on with alarm," and some others I didn't catch until _after_ I posted the chapter.... (Those ones have since been corrected, but there may be others.)  
**

**Thought process:  
I was tempted to actually **_**use**_** one of the various "Lords/Ladies of the Animals" (the Lord and Lady Creators the fox keeps referring to), but a few things stopped me.  
One, Anzu laid claim to Doyle, and while other gods from other lands will show up in future chapters, I want to put a limit on their personal interest in Doyle for now.  
Two, I haven't the **_**foggiest**_** notion where Doyle is in this arc, and thus, don't have a clue which pantheon I should pull such a deity from if I **_**were**_** to use it. I mean, he's been traveling for a couple years now, but how far could a kid really get in that time, on foot, on his own? He's obviously close enough to the last village that Benton's talking about Fae Tailor.  
And he's still got a long trip ahead of him by the time the next arc begins. (At least that one won't be on foot or alone, but I digress.) And since I don't know where he is now, I have no idea how much farther he'd have to travel—besides too far—to get to the next arc's destination.**


	18. Striking a Bargain

**I don't own Doyle. I don't own the Secret Saturdays.  
I do own the various farmers and their animals.**

**Oh, and I have no idea how things work on a farm. Or how they speak.  
I just liked the atmosphere....**

* * *

Stray

The boy's heart thudded in anticipation.

He'd been watching this place for a few days now. He'd done all right with that hunter, and now he was trying to convince himself to try one of the farms.

But he'd kept himself hidden from the hunter. _Now_, though, success depended on showing himself to these people.

The fox and his other teachers had told him some of these people belonged to their Lord and Lady, and that _those_ Powers wouldn't take two-leggers like those who'd hurt him.

He trusted his teachers. But he still feared the humans.

_If I got to face them__,_ he reminded himself, _best to face them on _my_ terms__._

He fingered the wooden carving in his—new!—jacket. He'd made it when he'd thought about approaching the farm. He didn't know _why_ he'd carved this one. He didn't even know what this carving was supposed to be; his carvings seemed sometimes to shape themselves.

But the carving gave him courage.

The boy took a deep breath, and walked towards the house.

He was nearly to the door when a large shape lunged towards him, barking furiously. He scrambled backwards to avoid getting bowled over.

_Go away!_ the dog said. _This is _my_ territory, stranger. How dare some feral whelp try to walk in on my land!_

"Nuh-uh," the boy protested. "I'm not trying to invade. That's not what I want at _all_."

_Then scram!_

"Hey, now, what's all this noise?" the farmer said as he came running up. He shushed the dog and looked the boy over with a stern gaze.

The boy trembled. This had been a bad idea.

"Who're you?" the farmer asked. "What're you doing here?"

The boy tried to answer, but all that came out of his mouth was a nervous squeak.

The farmer's eyes were drawn to the arm the boy had buried in his pocket. "What you got, runt? Something you stole from the village?"

He couldn't have said how, but the boy knew exactly what to say. "I found it," he said, showing the wooden piece to the farmer, "outside the gate. I thought maybe someone around here had dropped it, and I wanted to return it."

The farmer opened his mouth to say he'd never seen the carving before in his life, but something stopped him. He was not a greedy man, but _something_ made him want to keep the piece of wood. It felt...important, somehow. Like he might need it soon. But that was ridiculous; it was just a wooden toy.

"I...think it might be one of the kids' toys, " he heard himself reply. "I'll ask around to see."

The boy nodded and picked himself up off the ground to leave.

"Hey, kid," the farmer said, hesitantly, as he tried to make up his mind. Under those clothes, that kid was scrawny as could be, and probably wouldn't be much use, and the farmer couldn't afford to take on charity. On the other hand, the man would never respect himself if he refused a good turn for someone that needed it.

"Listen, uh...you any good with animals? I mean, besides Big Mouth?" The dog relaxed and dropped to the ground once it decided its master was _not_ going to throw out the strange runt, though it grumbled about it. "Cause I was thinking, if you don't have no place else you need to be...I need some help tending to my animals, and there ain't many people around this time of year."

The boy thought this over. _This_ seemed no different than his teachers. They gave him food when he needed it, but they also expected him to _work_ for his food, so he could learn to feed himself when he needed to. "You asking if I want to help?"

The farmer nodded. "If you don't have anywhere you need to be, of course. I mean, you'd kind of have to stay here a while, at least until I get some more help in. I'd put you up in my place," he added quickly, "and feed you the whole time. I wouldn't expect you to starve yourself over an old-timer...."

The boy tried a smile. "Show me what to do."

—

The boy learned the workings of a farm very quickly. Unlike his other lessons, his body was actually suited to these tasks—or at least, it would be once he'd gotten some more food in him.

The farmer voiced only one regret: that the boy had not been there earlier, to learn the harvest, but remarked often that he might be strong enough come spring to start to learn the _real_ work. He did not miss that the boy ate very little—the dog begged for scraps before the boy was willing to even taste the food—and remarked over how quickly he learned, and how much better he'd be with more meat on his bones.

What the farmer did not know was that the boy had seen how little food there was. The farmer could not feed both of them all winter.

The boy considered the work the farmer had for him, and came to a decision. What the farmer had said was only partly true: the farmer could use his help, but didn't _need_ him around the whole time. The work was little enough, and so long as the boy finished quickly, that freed him to hunt, or to investigate nearby farms.

The other farms were as poorly off as the old man, but he'd learned it was a matter of pride for them that he accept what they offered, and he learned to stop making suggestions about the little they threw out. Most could only spare scraps such as they'd feed their animals, but tried to give him a full meal, in exchange for a little help with that day's chores. He'd only once had to refuse, and that only because the family had offered money. He'd found himself having to explain his reason, just to avoid hurt feelings.

Daddy had taught him to never avoid responsibility, though, and to keep his promises, so he returned to the old man's farm every day.

—

Just over a week into the arrangement, the weather turned bad.

No matter how much the old man insisted, the boy refused to sleep in the house, and he stayed in the barn only to stay out of the weather.

The old man tossed in his bed, unable to sleep, worried about the boy, worried about his animals in this storm.

He thought he heard the boy yelling for help, and he struggled to wake up and climb out of bed. The carving had started to glow, and the old man stared at it for a moment, then shook his head, figuring he was still half asleep. He got himself dressed and fought the wind all the way to the barn to see what was wrong.

"What's the matter, boy?" he called once he'd gotten inside. No sense calling out before then; even inside, he had to shout to hear himself over the wind. "Who's breeched? What're you yelling about?"

_What's he mean?_ the boy wondered. He frowned for a moment. He'd only just gotten up after he heard the mare's pain. _He_ hadn't been yelling. And what else the farmer said.... _Breech?_

Rather than argue the point—the farmer talked to his animals often enough, but gave the boy funny looks when _he_ talked to them—he just shook his head. "Not sure. Mare's hurting. Pushing on something. Inside."

The farmer nodded and made his way to the little mare; he felt all over her stomach and frowned. "Dang it, you ain't supposed to drop for another month," he muttered. He felt the boy's eyes on him, and turned. "Mare's got a baby; I think she's trying to drop now, but it feels like the baby's turned. Coming out the wrong way."

"What does that mean?"

"It means, boy, that if that foal don't get turned the right way around and come out head first, ain't neither one is going to live."

"How do we help?" the boy asked

The farmer liked that. Not "can we help," but "how do we help." He hated to disappoint the child. "Vet would usually be here in another couple of weeks, but this foal's trying to drop early." He grimaced. "An' it's been long years since I ever had to deliver a young'un; my hands ain't what they used to be. Even if I could grab the baby, I'd never turn it alive."

"Then tell me what to do."

The farmer shook his head, sadly. "I wouldn't know the first thing about what to say."

"So you're just going to give up?" the boy asked, challenge in his eyes. "You say they _will_ die without our help; you're not going to try to make it a 'could'? You're not even going to _try_ to help them?"

The farmer stepped back, astonished. _This_ was the skittish little fellow he'd only just taken in? "Kid...."

But the boy had stopped listening. He asked the mare for guidance, silently—he remembered the strange looks people gave him when he talked out loud to the animals.

_Inside.... Your hooves, like their hands._ The mare gasped and strained.

The boy laid his jacket aside and reached in, as the mare directed. He felt her mind and the foal's both. With their guidance, and both telling him when they felt pressure or pain, he was able to find the foal's head and turn the animal so it could be born properly.

The farmer's mouth dropped open; the boy's eyes had turned brown to match the mare's, and were _glowing_, like that carving had glowed. He staggered back, uncertain of what he saw, or if he should be afraid.

The boy continued, unaware of the farmer's reaction, until the foal fell into his arms, small but healthy.

The farmer remembered his wits and found a blanket to wipe the foal off with, and set it beside its exhausted mama to nurse.

The boy started to smile.

And his eyes rolled up into his head, and he fell over.

—

The weather abated enough that the animal doctors arrived only a few days later. They listened to the farmer's story with some surprise and skepticism, and, once they'd examined the mare and her foal, a lot of relief.

After they arrived, the boy saw how much more they did around the farm than he could, and decided it was time to leave. He still visited some of the other farms, helping with the chores and accepting what little food they could spare, some strange instinct directing him to leave behind other wooden carvings that seemed to shape themselves. Some of these carvings looked like farm animals—a cow here, a dog there—but other shapes he still could not decipher.

He didn't know that anything unusual happened after his visits: the place where he'd left the cow shape had an old cow whose milk had all but dried up, only after he'd visited, she started producing again. Those he'd given the dog carving to had a pup with a lame leg that started getting better.

Another family, with one of the stranger carvings, found themselves compelled to spend a night out of their homes...and when they returned, they found that a tree branch, weak from the storms, had crashed where they _would_ have slept.

He did not stay at farms, only. He left carvings at hunters' camps, and these same hunters found a seeming abundance of available game, as though they'd stumbled upon the best bait ever.

Some of these events were mixed blessings. The cow's milk quickly turned sour, and she dried up again soon after, never to be milked again. But the family had enough each day to get through the winter, and they'd saved enough to buy another cow. The family who'd slept in the barn spent nearly all of their savings to make the house livable again...but if even one of their able-bodied elders had been inside when the branch fell, they could never have afforded the repairs. Some of the less skilled or less alert hunters found themselves losing bait or tools to the surge of game.

But the boy knew none of this. And he continued to wander, with no grasp of a destination.

**

* * *

Regarding Doyle's ability, I've been trying for a variant of Tamora Pierce's "Wild Magic," but without the "oh I love you I love you I don't care that I'm a vicious guard dog you can do whatever you want" approach that most (but not all) of her animals seem to have. With maybe a bit of "Mowgli" or something thrown in.  
Thus the guard dog in this one, who knows it's his **_**job**_** to keep strangers out of his territory...human or not.  
Thus, also, the nature of **_**why**_** the fox and the others helped Doyle in previous chapters....**

**And as to the carvings: what ability allows Doyle to do that, besides simply casting spells that he's not aware of casting, will eventually be explained.  
Or not.  
But the point there is that he's essentially (unknowingly) casting spells on these carvings that, as Benton more-or-less discovered, somehow "magnetically" **_**attract**_** whatever they're used for. Whether each one serves a particular purpose (hunting, fishing, milking the cow), or they simply attract whatever the user needs, I haven't the foggiest. I'm somewhat split on the idea—I have reasons why either could work, and I'd prefer not to use both—and it's quite possible that I'll never resolve the question.**


	19. Repaying a Favor

**Also known as "Bargain Part 2."**

**I don't own Doyle. I don't own the Secret Saturdays.  
I do own Benton, Corbin, Zander, and the various unnamed extras.**

**This and the previous chapter started out as one.  
I divided them for two reasons: length (which I try not to use as a reason, and it has proven to be a subjective concern)...and this one turns into another "don't-read-if-you're-hemophobic" chapter. (Yes, spell-check, I meant "**_**hE**_**mophobic.")**

**I'm thinking about adding a summary for this and other DRiH chapters (at this point, there is only one other, but I digress) at the end of the chapters in question, so that readers who wish to skip the specifics can do so without skipping the chapter.  
I probably should, eventually; if nothing else, it'd give me practice for writing a synopsis. But for the time being, I'll just focus on the "full" story.**

* * *

Stray

Benton listened to yet another farmer's story about the mysterious "spirit" that had visited them. He would have found some of the tales amusing, but he'd learned he was not the only one asking questions about the child. And Benton did not like some of those questions.

He asked, only slightly anxious, to see the carving the "spirit" had left. Many of the other farmers and hunters had mentioned these carvings, and the boy who'd left them, but only as a passing thought. Not one had connected the boy with their strange fortune.

This particular farmer, however, _knew_ that the carving was strange. He _knew_ he'd seen it glow when he'd gone out to see to his mare, he _knew_ the boy's eyes had glowed when he'd turned the foal.

The farmer showed him the piece eagerly, and Benton looked it over while the old man continued his story.

"Found it outside my gate, he'd said," the farmer said with a laugh. "Clever whelp, he was; I didn't see the lie until I caught him making more of these. Not that I'm complaining, of course," he added hastily. "Pretty good with that knife, too, for such a little'un."

"Knife?" Benton winced; his reply was a little sharp. The farmer's dog apparently agreed, as it bared its teeth again at the hunter.

"Oh, shush, you," the farmer scolded the dog. "Oh, aye, he's outside carving up wood with this big knife. Belike the hunting blades on your belt, there."

Benton didn't even glance at the blades the farmer indicated; he just continued to examine the wood carving. He felt the piece all over until he was sure. He wasn't the sort that knew _all_ weapons, but he knew when one of his own had done the work.

Whoever had carved this piece had done it with the knife Benton had left for the child.

"It's a wonder the boy don't try to make a living at it," the farmer continued. "That young fellow down the way tried to buy up all he had and more, but it seems the boy wouldn't even touch the money. Like he thought it was evil or something."

Benton hid a smile. He'd spoken yesterday to the "young fellow" in question, who must've been at least half again this man's age.

Then he frowned, remembering what that farmer had said about _why_ the child had refused. Some of it could have been other beggars, but not all. The rest...it was no mystery why that boy had looked at him that way.

"When did you see the boy last?"

The farmer scratched his head and tried to remember. "Must've been...shoot, I barely seen 'em when he was here. I didn't even notice he was gone until I heard yesterday you was asking around, but I know he was here a week back." He frowned. "I told him I'd put him up for the winter, and he don't even stick around maybe two weeks. Soon as more people showed, he went an' disappeared on me."

"Are you sure?" Benton tried not to show his eagerness. If he'd been here even a week ago, that meant Benton was getting closer. "I mean, the vets told me they'd never seen this kid, and if you hadn't even _noticed_ he was gone—"

"He's the one that turned the foal so it wasn't breeched," the old man said sternly. "And him without any teaching. I'd _think_ I'd remember _that_."

Benton took a deep breath. The kid's path seemed to be all over the place, without any clear pattern, but most of the farmers didn't seem too sure of when they'd seen him. _Most_ of the farmers didn't seem to remember him well at all, almost as though he really was some magical spirit. But this one was sure he'd been there..._only a week ago_.

Benton's heart hammered. He was close.

"What else do you remember about him?"

—

_To seek your prey, you must understand your prey._

Benton hunted new prey. It disturbed him to hear that other people had been asking questions about the boy. He could have family out looking for him, but given what the child had suffered, Benton did not want to take that chance.

The nature of those some of those questions chilled him. He determined that he must find the boy first. Only then would he let the others show themselves.

He did not know as much as he'd like about the boy, not enough to truly anticipate him, but given the questions those others had asked, he reasoned that they did not know so much, either. And given the nature of those questions, _he_ was the better hunter.

And what he knew, paid off in time.

He found the boy stalking a hare. Benton hung back, downwind, to see what the child would do.

The boy crept up on the animal, slow as can be, with a patience that Benton envied. _How many times did you have to miss,_ the hunter wondered, _to learn _that_ kind of patience?_ Benton could easily have taken down the hare by now...but the child used neither bow nor gun, nor any other such weapon. The child stalked the animal exactly as an animal would.

And Benton found the notion profoundly disturbing. He'd seen predators on the hunt; he'd killed plenty of game himself for a living. But to see a _human_ child hunting his prey in _this_ manner....

The child was almost upon the animal before it noticed him. The hare bolted, and the child sprang after it. He caught the animal in his hands before it could leap three times...and fastened his teeth into its neck. He took the knife he wore at his waist and ended the creature's struggling—Benton flinched at the sight of that blade so near the boy's face—and after a quick look for other predators, he flipped his catch over and licked the dripping throat clean.

Benton immediately began retching into the bushes, uncertain whether to be glad that he hadn't eaten yet. The boy froze at the sound, then he slowly turned, the hare still in his teeth, to face the hunter.

—

Benton tried to control his nausea, but he could not force himself to look at the leg the boy offered. He'd had raw meat before, but that was nothing like this. Sushi was kept chilled, as often as not, until it found its way to a restaurant. The meat he'd accepted in those tribes was cleaned until only another hunter would know that it was once alive. He had _never_ eaten anything still bloody and warm from the kill.

What was he to say? _No, thanks, fresh hare tastes terrible?_ Benton had seen the sort of things beggars and the like ate. It didn't appear that the flavor of _this_ meal bothered the child.

_No, it will make me sick?_ He remembered how the boy was with the food Benton had offered; no, that was the wrong impression to suggest. Though if Benton refused to eat it....

_I like my meat cooked?_ Like the flavor, possibly not important to one who had known real hunger, and it might also serve as a reminder of the villages. Given what he'd learned of the boy, that was the absolute _last_ thing Benton wanted to start.

"Sorry," he finally managed. "I can't. Some things...some foods...don't..._quite_...agree with my stomach."

The boy watched him warily, but retrieved the leg.

As much as it sickened him, he couldn't help but watch the child eat. There was one thing to be said of the boy: though he ate quickly enough, hunger had taught him to be a clean eater, wasting not even a drop of his prey's life if possible. He made a smaller mess than even the villagers, which reminded Benton of another concern. The hunter had worried about bugs, with the boy living wild like this, but now he began to wonder if the child might instead be cleaner than many "civilized" people.

"So what _do_ you want, then?" the boy asked between bites.

"Am I...supposed to want something?" Benton replied, fighting to keep a grimace off his face. _If I can get him to Corb,_ he decided, _the _first_ thing I'll do once he's settled in is teach him to _cook_ his food._ He suppressed a shudder. _And then to hunt like a human._

The boy shrugged. "You left me stuff. Food. Clothes. The knife." He took another bite; Benton turned to study the trees around them, and missed his expression. "Knife helped a lot. My teeth ain't so good as the animals', and I got no claws of my own." He looked at Benton for a moment. "I figure I don't get something for nothing, and you'd given me stuff that helps me hunt, so I'm supposed to pay you back, somehow."

Benton cringed inwardly. He didn't know if the boy had learned that from his dealings with the villagers or after he'd taken off on his own, and finally decided it didn't matter. The child was _far_ too young for that particular lesson, no matter where it had come from, but he seemed to understand it better than most adults. What could that possibly mean to Benton's mission?

_It means__,_ he thought, _that he won't understand or believe if someone wants to be nice...just to be _nice_. No matter that he knows they can be mean just to be mean._

He made a mental note to tell Corb about the observation, though he was confident the other man could pick it up on his own.

"You left those carvings," Benton pointed out. "They're...nice. And I've talked to other people you'd given them to. A lot of people like them."

The child frowned. "They're just toys. Nothing special. Nothing useful." He'd cleaned all the meat off, and started cracking open the bones for the marrow. Benton winced at the sound.

"You'd be amazed at how 'just toys' could help someone," Benton replied.

The child actually put down the bone to look at Benton. "What kind of help?"

Benton shrugged. "Well, I got this friend in the...I have this friend. He's got a son, maybe five, six years older than you—" _Looks twice your age, but I'd bet you're older than you look...of course, Zander doesn't look _his_ age, either_— "who's been real sick. Nothing catching, but he's stuck in his bed most of the time, and hasn't hardly been able to leave his room in...probably almost as long as you've been alive."

He sighed, and his voice trembled. "Being stuck inside is killing him near as much as the sickness, but he isn't strong enough to go out. Might be some of your 'just toys' could make him feel better, maybe even make him forget for a while that he's ever been sick." He chose not to reveal what kind of "help" he suspected these carvings could really give. Time enough for that later...if the kid gave him a later.

The boy appeared to consider this, and Benton realized he had his opening.

"Look, if you really think you need to pay me back...." Benton thought over his next words carefully. "I'm _not_ going to make you do something you don't want to. So if you want to pay me back, and you don't want to do _this_, then we can figure something else out. But you asked me what I want, and that's it." He looked the child in the eye. "I want...I would like...for you to try to help Zander."

The seconds stretched into an eternity.

Finally, the boy nodded.

**

* * *

My morbid side finds something amusing about the image of my tough-as-nails professional game hunter feeling nauseated watching Doyle eat...even though I agree with him, under the circumstances. Just imagining it well enough to write it was...disturbing.  
That probably qualifies as ethnocentrism, or something like it.**

**Hmm, I wonder how old Zander really is? I seem to have a number of original characters (okay, two: Aeron and Zander) that I estimate as "about" Drew's age...and one canon character (Paul Cheechoo) that I judged as also "about" her age. (Though for my timeline, I could say that Paul is anywhere from as young as Doyle—maybe a year or two older—to a few years older than Aeron without mucking anything up.)  
But how old are these characters, **_**really**_**?**


	20. Big Brother's Watching

**I don't own Doyle. I don't own The Secret Saturdays.  
I do own Benton, Corbin, Zander, the unnamed extras, and...the reason for the chapter title.**

**(There were originally two reasons, but this chapter has since been split off from the next one. I'll have to come up with a different title for that one.)**

**Note: Certain elements of this story—such as mythological concepts, geological features, and any other cultural elements—are a blend of reality, official canon, and things that I made up as I went along.  
**_**Mostly**_** things I made up as I went along. I hope to salvage them for my original fiction.**

**As I've mentioned in previous chapters, for a while, Doyle will be referred to alternately as "the boy" or "the child," rather than by name.  
The reason is simple: the chapters in question are told mostly through the point of view of other characters, people who don't **_**know**_** Doyle's name. (Well, there's another reason, but Doyle doesn't admit to that until the next chapter.)  
About the only confusion I see is when I have two or three (or more) males referenced in a paragraph. I try to avoid that, or elaborate when I can, but the question of which "he" or "him" I'm referring to may still come up.  
As I've learned in programming classes, "a mistake is sometimes visible only to another pair of eyes," so if you spot problems like that, **_**please**_** let me know!**

* * *

Stray

The train ride took most of a day, leaving Benton plenty of time to observe the child.

He had many questions for the boy, but he couldn't even begin to decide how to ask. For instance, _how_ had the child made it so far in so little time? If he'd gone by train, it might have been easy; easier still when he considered that Fae hadn't seen him in over a year.

Easy, that is, but for the necessary money or supplies to last him all that while. And given the child's behavior, Benton didn't think he'd have willingly traveled among so many people for any length of time. No, this child must have been alone and on foot. Something had convinced the boy to change his mind about Benton, but the hunter could see that it was difficult.

Then there was the question of how far the boy had traveled since Benton had last seen him. The only way the hunter could figure it was that the boy had wandered through the heart of the woods and mountains, through areas thought to be the gods' own hunting grounds, through places even Benton was superstitious enough to avoid.

The more details Benton managed to glean from his observations, the more he realized that he knew absolutely _nothing_ about this child. Where had he come from? How long had he been alone? _Why_ was he alone?

His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of the food cart. Benton bought two sandwiches and set one in front of the child.

The boy glanced once at the food, then stared at the floor. Benton raised an eyebrow and took the sandwich back, took a big bite of it, and closed his eyes as if in bliss. "Mm, this is _delicious_," he said, watching the child out of a corner of his eye. "Possibly the best sandwich I've ever had." He took another bite, then set the sandwich down. "And...ah, so filling. That's _just_ what I needed."

The boy turned to stare at him with an odd look. The fear remained, but so was something new...something...calculating, almost.

The expression cleared, and Benton wondered if he'd imagined it. The child reached for the food, then snatched his hand back, watching the hunter.

"When we get to Corb's, there are some things you're going to have to learn," Benton said. "I think that we could start your lessons now. Beginning with etiquette."

"Eti—" The child frowned and mouthed the unfamiliar word before trying again. "Eti...ket?"

Benton nodded. "Oh, ah, sorry. It means manners. Being polite. Like saying—"

"Please?" the boy said, looking between Benton and the sandwiches.

"Right," Benton replied with a chuckle. "Liking saying 'please' when you want something." He held out the other sandwich, but the child drew back and shook his head. The child pointed at the half-eaten sandwich. "You want...the one I started eating?" The child nodded, and Benton just shrugged and handed it to him.

The child devoured every last crumb, pausing only for a mumbled "thank you," while Benton took only a few bites of the other sandwich. The hunter saw with mild amusement that the boy watched him again with that calculating look. Benton set the second sandwich in front of the child and continued to observe.

"You know, kid," a woman's voice said, "if he'd wanted to poison you, he could do it easy without hurting himself."

Benton glared at the woman who leaned against the door. She shrugged and smiled, a cold, calculating smile that was nothing like the look the child had been giving him. "Could be he's got medicine on him to make him better afterwards, or maybe it's some poison that he's got a tolerance for, so he doesn't get sick. He kills animals for money, so he probably uses poison on them; he could've given you some of that."

The boy stared at the sandwich, white-faced.

_Crap! Is _that_ what that was about?_ Benton turned to the woman, shifting to hide the child from her view. "Are you _trying_ to scare him? Or do you think it's _funny_ that he's practically starving?"

He nearly shouted that last, knowing there were other passengers who'd faced hunger, or who had family and friends with such difficulties. _They_ would not appreciate her humor any more than he had.

She merely shrugged again and walked off, unfazed by the people glowering at her.

Benton trembled in barely controlled rage. First the villagers, then that—that—

What did those people _want_ with this child? _Why_ had those like that woman been asking the farmers those questions? For Benton was certain that the woman had been one of them; the same ones, he was sure, who'd been asking about that gypsy woman and _her_ protector, a few years back. He would stake his life on it.

Between his anger and the child's fear, the second sandwich went uneaten.

—

"Found him," the woman said into her radio. She withdrew a small weapon, nothing as flashy as that spear, but infinitely more effective.

"Solés," the voice on the radio said, "don't even _think_ about it."

She stopped. "Am I allowed to ask why? We've been trying to grab this kid since—"

"Since you had his parents killed and allowed the child to escape?" the voice suggested in entirely too pleasant a voice.

She trembled. "Sir, I am _trying_ to remedy that. I need—"

"To observe the child, only. That girl has finally come out of the monastery, and our people have determined that she has...atrophied. She may yet be of use to us, but not so much that we can risk grabbing her without further observation. Do you really wish to eliminate potential specimens, just to acquire one child who may also have atrophied?"

Solés decided it would be unwise to remind her superiors about what they'd learned from those farmers.

"Or to risk losing him—_again_—in the confusion?" the voice added. "You are to observe the child, and observe, _only_. You watch where he goes, what he does. You gather information on the child so _we_ can decide if he is still useful, and you make certain that you _always_ know where he is so we can collect him when _we_ choose. _Nothing more_."

"Understood, sir."

—

Nobody bothered them for the rest of the trip, though Benton thought he'd seen that woman and other grey-coated people snooping around.

He never did convince the child to eat again, and did not know whether the child would choose to starve rather than risk poison. He was thankful that they had reached their destination; he was confident that Corb could deal with that problem before it _became_ a problem.

The train pulled into the station, and Benton eventually coaxed the child into following him outside, and they finished the journey on foot.

The sight of the boy outpacing him _should_ have amused the hunter, but very little could force its way through Benton's anger.

The boy cringed away from the hunter, unaware that Benton's anger was not directed at _him_.

"Ho! Benton!" Corbin called out. "This the lad you wanted me to see? Your wild child?"

Benton's smile upon seeing his old friend was tight. "Aye, this is him."

"Benton," Corbin scolded when they neared. "He looks half-starved. Don't tell me you didn't _feed_ him."

Benton's smiled faded. "You recall what I'd said before, when I'd first seen him, right? With that fox?" Corbin nodded. "I'd gotten him to eat a bit, on the train, except he wouldn't even look at the food until after I'd tried it. Only...." Corbin waited for him to continue. Benton sighed in disgust and told him what that woman had said.

Corbin grimaced. "I agree that her...joke...was _less_ than tasteful, but maybe she only spooked—" Benton interrupted with a shake of his head. "No? Well, if he'd been living as a beggar, he could've easily gotten food that'd gone bad—"

"You didn't see his _face_, Corb," Benton interrupted again. "_I_ ate it and was just fine. He _watched_ me eat it; he _saw_ that I was fine." He grimaced. "I won't know until he says, but I think someone tried to poison him on purpose." _And she knew it, too, didn't she?_ Benton shook with anger. _She wasn't being mean...wasn't _just_ being mean. He _had_ been poisoned, and she _knew_ it._

Corbin rubbed at his forehead, and sighed. "Well, given your story about that fox, might be I can do something right away." They immediately set to work coaxing the child into the house, and Corbin requested the servants to prepare a simple meal.

He did not specify how simple the fare must be, or explain the reason. The household was entirely too familiar with the strays he took in.

Rather than join the child at the small meal of hot bread and milk, or attempt to encourage him to eat the food that he only stared at, Corbin held a whispered consultation with Benton and one of the servants.

The servant ran off for a moment, and returned with one of Corbin's older cats and placed the animal on the table.

The cat investigated the child, then helped itself to the dish. After it had lapped up half the milk, it stretched and made itself comfortable in the child's lap.

Finally, the child decided to eat, but even then, he only picked at the food.

Corbin shook his head. "He's not a completely lost cause," he said, "but this will be difficult."

"Corb?"

"He seems willing to trust the animals' judgment," Corbin replied. "That's a good sign, especially given what your grey woman had said to him. But...." He shook his head.

—

Corbin tried to give the child another helping, but he refused to eat it. Neither Corbin nor Benton could decide if this was because the _cat_ ignored it after a sniff, or if the child simply didn't want any more. On the one hand, an additional problem with the child's ability to trust; on the other, an intelligent decision not to stuff himself. Given what Benton had said about the child, either one was likely.

Corbin finally gave up on the food and tried to encourage the boy to follow him to the next step: a quick medical exam.

Benton raised one eyebrow to see Dr. Perez waiting for them, but he said nothing.

A few minutes later, Perez gave the child a clean bill of health. "Naturally," the doctor said, "there are a few problems with malnourishment, but as long as you can convince him to trust you, that should be fixed easily enough. Given what Benton had said of the child's eating habits, I don't think you'll have to worry about him ever stuffing himself sick, though I'd keep an eye out for a while, just to be sure."

Corbin nodded. Good news, so far. Better than he'd expected.

"It's amazing, though." Perez shook his head, unable to believe his own findings. "In spite of those habits, I've found no evidence of food poisoning—the natural kind," he quickly amended after noticing Benton's anger. "It will take more than that quick exam to check for any other sort. And do you know, I haven't found even a _hint_ of a parasite on him? I haven't seen _nobles_ this clean."

Corbin thanked the doctor, and after a promise to let him know how things turned out, saw him on his way.

"Well, young one," Benton said, "what do you say we take a look around, huh? That sound like a good idea, Corb?"

"Sure," Corbin called back. "He may be here a while. The sooner he gets to know the grounds, the better. Least if he wouldn't rather find his bed, first."

The child shook his head. "When...." He looked between Corbin and Benton, uncertain who to address. "When do I start working?"

Corbin hesitated for just a moment. Then he smiled at the boy. "In the morning, I'd wager." He summoned one of the servants to show the child around. "Ah, Benton?" he called, the smile vanished. "A word, please?"

Benton followed the child and servant outside, forcing Corbin to rush to keep up.

Corbin pulled him back so they could speak privately without whispering. "Benton, exactly _how_ long have we known each other?"

Benton thought for a moment. "Probably since we've been in diapers. Or near enough as to make no difference."

"And how long have you been bringing strays to me?"

"Almost that long." Benton's expression turned grim again; he knew where this was going, and had hoped he could have talked it over with Corb _before_ it had come up any other way.

"Since when did you think it was a good idea to let that boy think he's here so I can put him to _work_?"

"Well, he seemed to hit it off well enough with those farmers. You _know_ enough of them can't afford another mouth to feed, unless it's attached to a hand that can work."

"Benton—" Corbin's tone adopted a warning note.

Benton sighed. This was _not_ how he'd wanted to approach the subject. "He told me—_he_ told _me_—that you don't get something for nothing. He'd figured out I'd been leaving things for him, like clothes and food and that knife and stuff.... And he decided I must want something from him in return."

Corbin blinked a few times. "Crap. So if I try to convince him that I'm taking him in because it's the right thing to do—" He shook his head, and ran a hand through his hair.

"He won't understand," Benton replied.

"Or worse, won't believe me," Corbin added. "I don't want him thinking I'm only _pretending_ to be nice." He shook his head. "_Damn_ it all." He looked up only briefly to see the child investigating the stables up ahead. He looked back at the ground and thought for a while. "Benton?"

Benton looked away from the stables. "Yeah?"

"What...sort of job am I supposed to be giving him? Did you talk to him about that?"

Benton scratched his head. "That's kind of up to you, but...." He let out a quick breath. "The kid asked me what I wanted, so I told him—" He shrugged. "I told him about Zander. I told him maybe he could help Zander feel better. I figure, if nothing else, Zander'd be a good inf—"

Something that wasn't human shrieked within the stables, and both men took off at a run.

The servants, accustomed as they were to Corbin's strays, did not spook easily, but this one was frantic. It didn't take long to see why.

"Sir, I'm sorry, I don't know how he got in there—"

"What happened?" Corbin demanded. He looked to see the child pressed up in a corner behind one of the more vicious animals.

"It's Viper, sir," the servant managed to reply. "The kid, he—he'd gotten into Viper's stall—I'm sorry, I was watching him, I don't know how—but now he can't get out past Viper, and the stallion won't let us near enough—"

"Enough," Corbin said. He waved away the servants; if the stallion was agitated any more, the child could be hurt. He approached the rearing stallion, pitching his voice to be heard over the animal's battle-cry, while still trying to sound soothing. He talked to the stallion gently, convinced it to drop to the ground and let him come closer.

He stepped around the animal to approach the child, when the stallion's teeth _snapped_ in front of him, and he went staggering back.

Benton and Corbin stared at the animal. "He's _always_ tolerated me," Corbin whispered. "What—?"

Viper calmed down a fraction and sniffed at the child. The two men stared at this unusual behavior.

"Corb...." Benton blinked several times. "Corb, is that...is that monster being _nice_ to him?"

The child, apparently unaware of their confusion, reached out to pet the stallion's nose. The stallion accepted the rub, closing his eyes in a moment of bliss. He opened his eyes again immediately to glare at the other humans.

"Impossible," Corbin breathed. "I've had plenty of strays in here before; Viper's never been nice to a one of them. He isn't even nice to me, he just tolerates me." He shook his head. "He's always been okay with the foals, but any other species, he's as deadly as any snake."

—

They could not convince the child to come out of the stable, and any approach was warned off by the stallion's snapping teeth or lashing hooves.

Corbin had no choice but to give up; he tried to reassure himself that he wasn't leaving the child with a potentially deadly animal, that the stallion was actually _protecting_ the boy.

He sent one of the servants to collect bedding from the house, and allowed the child to choose where he would sleep.

Corbin didn't think he could be surprised again that day, and merely shook his head when the child chose to lay out his things in Viper's stall.

When the child asked again about work, Corbin only said that they'd talk about it in the morning.

**

* * *

Section 2: Oh, so **_**that's**_** why they haven't gone after Drew.... And why they haven't gotten Doyle **_**yet**_**. (Aeron's interference in "Runaway" besides the point.)  
And there is clearly a difference of opinion within the ranks of the Grey Men regarding effective techniques...and not just between Solés and Epsilon. How much is simply a question of time (and Epsilon's argument for why Solés failed), and how much an actual difference of opinion, I don't know.**

**Section 3: I wanted to give Doyle some milk toast, but Corbin told me that adding the butter might be overdoing it, at least until he has a better idea of what Doyle can digest. So he got hot bread and milk instead....**

**Original characters:  
Dr. Perez started out as a character in my Skinwalker storyline. You may learn a little of his background (including the reason why Benton showed mild surprise upon seeing him) in **_**that**_** storyline...whenever I get around to writing it. Suffice, for now, to say that he's not a conventional "family practice" doctor; Doyle's experience thus far with other people is probably the only reason why Perez was an appropriate choice...maybe the **_**only**_** choice.  
I don't know the reason for his name; it is not meant to reflect cultural or ethnic heritage in any way. Unlike some of my other original characters (and at least one of Doyle's aliases), I did not **_**choose**_** to call him that.  
That's just the name assigned to him by whichever part of my brain is responsible for labeling (like Solés, Marie, Jacob, and at least one other original character, who will make her first appearance in a few arcs...and at least one of Doyle's aliases).  
And like those other characters, the name stuck.**


	21. More Lessons

**I don't own the Secret Saturdays. I don't own Doyle.  
I own Corbin, Zander, the servants, and whoever else manages to make an appearance.**

**Corbin and Zander eventually learn Doyle's name, but until then, he's still "the boy" or "the child." (And maybe "the younger boy/child" when he shares a paragraph or ten with Zander.) Even in scenes written from his perspective.  
Hmm, wonder if I should change some of the previous chapters accordingly. Say, **_**all**_** of the "Stray" chapters up until this point? Yes? No?  
I'm pretty sure I never refer to Zander by either of those labels—though he may sometimes be "the older boy/child" when sharing text with Doyle.**

**Icestar (chapter 20): No, I don't mind you asking. I hope you and other readers don't mind that I'll take my time to answer; you've provided me with an opportunity to lay out more details for any curious readers.  
Much of the story has been edited since I first set a reply (thanks to "And Your Enemies Closer"), so the actual reply has also been edited. The answer is still a little involved, but hopefully not as much as the original version.  
**

**It goes without saying (yet I'll say it anyway; I'm ornery like that) that Doyle's **_**actual**_** age depends on the Word of God.  
Also, my ages are based on calendar year rather than any question of when his birthday might really be. The date has yet to be relevant for my purposes, so unless JS ever mentions it, I'm just not going to bother.  
For the purpose of my timeline, I—who have no grasp of judging age—guesstimated him at about 5 years old, and Drew as 10, when their parents died. I still say I can drop his age by a year or two without hurting my timeline, though too much would mean more hand waving regarding his survival skills.  
Then comes the Child's Plight arc, the bulk of which took place the year later, making Doyle about six. (New Job****—****in which Doyle did not participate****—****starts the same year Doyle's parents died, and ends the same year Child's Plight begins.)**  
**The Stray arc (the one to which you replied) started a full year after the Child's Plight arc ended (you may recall that the first three lines of Chapter 15 specifically mentioned this), making him at least seven. However, a good chunk of winter passed between then and now, and I don't know what month his birthday is; I don't know if he's still seven, or if he's already eight, by the time your review came up.  
By the time we get much further into the Stray arc, though, say by chapter 26 (probably late summer, or into the fall), we can safely assume that he's at least eight.  
Then for future arcs: The Hunted may technically begin the year he's eight, and Corrections might bleed into the year he's ten, depending on month in either case, but a chunk of both of them take place while he's _nine_.  
After...the next arc he appears in is as an adult (Drew gets more screen time in the meantime), and I pretty much stop caring about his age, outside of remembering the duration of the story.  
Again, I have no grasp of judging age, and while I'll hand-wave a lot of the things by using the "need to survive is an effective teacher" routine (which I'll probably use in future dialogue), it may be that some of his survival skills are...unrealistic for his age, even with that excuse.  
In addition, some of my chapters make specific reference to the passage of time, so I'll need to remember what I'm doing, lest I start messing up my own timeline.  
**

**Okay, so that still managed to be rather involved.  
*shrug*  
Oh, well.**

* * *

Stray

When Corbin returned in the morning to feed the animals, he found the child curled up against that stallion. When he tried to approach the stables, both of them came wide awake.

Viper watched Corbin warily, but eventually relaxed his stance and nudged the child out towards the man.

To Corbin's relief, the child went where the animal directed. To Corbin's astonishment, the animal fixed _him_ with a very familiar glare.

Corbin shivered. Viper only gave that look when someone took out one of the foals Corbin sometimes boarded. More than one had returned from the stables with broken ribs, if the foal was even scratched up from thorns.

But Viper had _never_ looked that way at Corbin before.

The question was, was that good for the child, or bad? Corbin had no idea why Viper had turned gentle with the boy, and didn't want the child to count on that behavior if the stallion should change his mind again. Not to mention how difficult it made any effort on Corbin's part to _help_ the child if the stallion's behavior should continue....

_Time enough to figure that out later,_ he scolded himself. _Be glad Viper let me take him now._

Corbin showed the child where to relieve himself and clean up, found a slightly overlarge change of clothes for him, and directed the servants to bring breakfast up to Zander's room. The meal was plain oatmeal, with a dish of mixed nuts.

Corbin wrestled with the nutcracker for a few minutes before the child took the dish and shelled a few of them by hand. Corbin deliberately ignored the feat, though Zander watched in amazement, too stunned to manage more than a quick thank you as he accepted the pieces.

"Where'd you learn that," Zander finally managed after his third nut, "from squirrels or something?"

"Yeah," the child said. "They taught me how to get the shell off without losing...most...of...." Corbin and Zander stared at him, and the boy trailed off; their expressions reminded him uncomfortably of how the farmers looked at him when he talked to their animals. "Um," he mumbled, "something like that." He used the nutcracker after that.

Corbin watched the child examine the food. The boy picked at the oatmeal—Corbin had made sure the boy saw him serving all of them from the same pan—but he didn't show any hesitation over the nuts. After Corbin and Zander waved off more helpings, the child set to work finishing the bowl off.

Corbin waited until the child was finished before talking about the "job."

"Job?" Zander raised one eyebrow. "He's here for a _job_?"

"Benton...had a good idea for suggesting it," Corbin replied, attempting to conceal a grimace. The child _might_ misinterpret if he realized Corbin disliked the notion of putting him to work.

Zander glanced at his father's guarded expression, shrugged, and went back to his meal. He took the role of observer, participating in the conversation only when addressed, and watched the child's reactions so he could compare notes with his father or Benton later.

_Like your mother,_ Corbin mused, taking note of Zander's change in attitude and saddened by the reminder. _We've taught you too well._ He shook himself out of his memories and focused on the child in front of him.

"I suppose the _first_ thing we need is introductions," Corbin said. "The man that brought you here is my friend, Benton. My name, as I think Benton told you, is Corbin Revan. Zander, there, is my son." The child nodded at each name, and repeated them when prompted. "What do we call you?" The child hesitated, and Corbin allowed a smile on his face. "I can't very well call you 'boy' when I want your attention, can I?"

The child appeared to think about this, and shook his head. He frowned, and took several minutes before he tried to answer. He finally just shook his head again. "I can't. I...I don't remember."

"Well, that's all right," Corbin said. "Nothing to be ashamed of." He was not surprised that the boy had forgotten his own name. Many beggar children didn't know theirs to begin with.

"You'll remember soon enough," Zander said. "If you like, we can figure out something to call you until then."

"So, exactly what did Benton tell you about your...job?" Corbin tried to suppress the note of distaste at the last word. He only hoped the child didn't notice...or misinterpret.

The child gathered his thoughts, and slowly repeated his conversation with the hunter.

When he was done, a few moments of silence passed while Corbin thought about what to say. "All right," he said with a sigh. "So what do you think, Zander? Sounds to me like Benton wanted him to work for you. What do _you_ want him to do?"

Zander shrugged. "Easy enough. Stick around, let me talk at him once in a while, share my lessons, things like that. Do a lot of the things I like to do, so's I've got someone to do them with." He _wanted_ to tell the younger boy that he just wanted a friend, but given what Benton had told them....

"That's...that's _all_? Just...stay near you?" The child frowned. "But...there's a village real close. If that's all you want me for, wouldn't it have been easier—"

Zander and Corbin shook their heads. "I get bored," Zander said, "being stuck here without nobody near my age to talk to. I mean, I like having you around, dad," he added with a sardonic grin, "but you're a _grown-up_. I gotta have a _kid_ around."

Corbin suppressed the urge to snort. "As for the village, a lot of those kids only try making friends with Zander because their parents wanted something from me." It pained him to remember that the younger boy would understand _that_ only too well.

"None of them cared two ways about _me_," Zander added bitterly. "And they ain't tried that in years, not since we kicked the last one out."

Corbin nodded. "We have...very little patience for that sort; most of them don't even make it past the servants." He fixed the child with a hard look. "Please understand. We don't expect to have you spend a few minutes, or a few days, or such, with Zander, and then send you on your way. My son's been sick most of his life. Sometimes he gets better, sometimes he gets worse, but he's been confined to his room most of that time. To the house, _all_ the time. You being here may be the only chance he has at having a 'normal' childhood." _And maybe the best chance _you'll_ get,_ Corbin thought. "I expect you to _live_ with us, for however many years we need."

The child blinked at the word "years."

Zander nodded at younger boy's surprise. "If I wanted a servant, dad's got plenty to pick from. But I feel like I got to pretend to be an adult around them. I need a _companion_, someone I can try to be a kid with. Look, Benton said he thought you might be able to make me better, right?" The younger boy nodded slowly. "Well, that's going to take _time_. A long time." Zander shrugged. "If you don't want to, you don't have to stick around. But me and dad would like you to give it a try, all right?"

"I can't," the child said. "Not the whole time. I'd need...I'd need time to hunt—"

Corbin shook his head. "If you want to hunt, that's fine. But I can and will feed you, no problem. If you stick around long enough, you'll need other things to get the job done, too. I'll provide clothing, any tools you think you need. Like for those carvings Benton mentioned; if you want to make those, you go right ahead. I'll supply all the wood you need." He smiled. "If you need anything, you need only to ask."

—

Every night for a month, the child returned to sleep in the stables, though Corbin and Zander eventually convinced him to stay in the house now and again.

He stayed with Zander when the older boy received his meals and lessons. When Benton visited, the child followed him for other lessons that the hunter insisted he needed. He accompanied Corbin every day for yet more lessons, to learn how the man tended to his animals, and Corbin gradually revealed the circumstances in which he acquired each one. The only one Corbin refused to explain was Viper, though he thought the boy might understand the stallion better than anyone.

The younger boy made many wood carvings for Zander, and he often watched Zander playing with the wood pieces, making up stories about the animals and the places they might live. Zander coaxed the younger boy into making suggestions and occasionally participating in these games.

As time passed, he improved at making those carvings, but Zander's favorite piece was the first the child had given him: a rough shape of Viper that the older boy had taken to wrapping himself around while he slept.

Dr. Perez made several visits, and declared that both children had vastly improved, though he continued to fret over the younger boy's emotional health.

When the servants traveled into the village for supplies, Corbin occasionally sent the child with them. He explained that he wanted the villagers to understand that the child was under _his_ care, now, and that interfering with the child meant interfering with Corbin. Sometimes Benton took him to sell meat to the villagers.

Few enough villagers paid attention to the child when he was with the servants or Benton. Most of those who did, did not want to alienate Corbin or the hunter, so they kept their opinions to themselves.

In all this time, Corbin spent his time researching two problems: finding out exactly where the child had come from, and how to officially adopt him into the family. Benton and the household knew he was looking into the first, and helped where they could; he spoke of the second only to Zander, who had first suggested it.

Several months passed in this manner, without incident.

**

* * *

What's wrong with Zander? I'm not sure. I just know that he and his mother had gotten sick when he was very young, and his mother died of whatever it was. Was it an actual (but not very contagious) sickness that Zander and his mother both had the misfortune to catch? Or is the "sickness" a symptom of something else entirely?  
And whether sickness or symptom, was it misfortune or malice?  
Whatever it was, it ran its course quickly enough and left nothing in its victims of the original cause (nothing that the doctor could identify well enough to treat, at any rate), though the damage (namely the continued drain of his strength) is permanent.  
I've got a few speculations bouncing around in my skull, but so far, they should all be in the background. They may come up as vague hints (if they ever stop bouncing around long enough for me to pick one), like some of my other "before the avalanche" ideas do, but none of them should impact the story at large.  
Suggestions?**


	22. That One Incident

**Descriptive enough chapter title for you? Given my remark in...chapter 15, was it? Runaway? The final chapter to the "Child's Plight" arc?  
I **_**think**_** that's where I said it....  
(For the most part, I'm not going to try to come up with any "Wow!" chapter titles. Something short, and vaguely descriptive—preferably without giving away the entire chapter—is sufficient for my needs.)**

**I don't own Doyle. I don't own the Secret Saturdays.  
I do own Corbin, Zander, the servants, Fae, and (unfortunately) the oh-so bigoted villagers.**

**No, Corbin and company still don't know Doyle's name by the end of this chapter.  
But they will by the end of next chapter.**

* * *

Stray

"Pop quiz," the servant said, shouldering another package. "You know Benton brings in a lot of meat, right?"

The child nodded and forced himself not to sigh. More lessons. The animals taught him how to stay alive, and that hunter had taught him some tools to help. Even what he'd learned from the farmers, and some of the stuff Corbin showed him, was useful, at least when he helped Corbin to tend to his land or the animals.

But he could not understand why they gave him these other lessons, like they gave Zander; when he tried to ask about it, they waved it aside, and just told him people needed to know these things.

"All right, and Corbin _buys_ meat here in the village, right?" The child nodded again. The servant sneaked in a quick glance to be sure the child was listening. "Now why, seeing as Corb and Benton are friends, doesn't Corb just buy his meat from Benton directly?"

Now the child sighed, and the servant chuckled at the sound. The child had asked that exact same question on one of the first trips, after he'd seen where Corbin got his meat from. He remembered the servants had talked a lot about something they called "economy," but had never actually answered the question.

The child frowned. It still didn't make sense to him. "Mr. Corbin's got money, more than a lot of them. He could buy more than the whole village and still have more money."

"True, true. So the villagers can't all afford to buy so much meat. And let's suppose they can't afford to work for it, either. So why not just _give_ them the meat?"

The child shrugged. "I think...I think Mr. Benton _does_ give away some of the meat." He thought for a moment, then nodded. This, he remembered from other trips. "Yeah, he gives away the meat to them as can't buy it, and sells it to everyone else, cheaper than the other hunters sell it. But _they _don't sell it for less, so...." He frowned.

"So...." the servant prompted.

"They sell it to others for the same price as the stuff they buy from other hunters, right? Which is more than what they pay for any of it for. But 'cause they ain't paying so much for what Benton catches, they got more money left when they're done. They got more money to buy other things they need."

"Exactly!" The servant gave a huge smile, and chuckled at the child's startled expression. The boy would clearly be puzzling over that one for the rest of the day, but this lesson was success enough for the moment.

"And not just things they _need_; even them as haven't got much money like treats now and again. And _speaking_ of treats...." He pointed towards one of the other shops, and dropped his voice to a whisper. "I believe the fellow who owns that shop has started importing some of those candies you and Zander like so much. So why don't _you_," he pulled a handful of coins from his pocket and pushed them at the child, "go pick some out, huh? I've got one more thing I need; I'll be just around the corner if you need me."

"Um—but—" The child swallowed, afraid again. "But...but I—"

But the servant missed his expression, and had already walked into the next shop.

The child took several gulps of air, trying to resist the urge to panic. His hands were slick with sweat; he fumbled to put the money into a pocket before he dropped it. _It's okay,_ he told himself. He looked around through the crowd. _I'm fine. Nobody's watching me. Nobody cares._

He took another deep breath, and another, until he could breathe normally; his heart stopped pounding and slowed to what felt normal. _They won't touch me. Corbin won't _let_ them touch me, not while I can still work for him and Zander; they don't want him mad._

He wiped his hands several times before they felt dry, and convinced himself to go into the shop.

He knew what to do; one of the lessons was about the different kinds of money, and how to read a price and add up the coins. He found the candies and busied himself counting the coins the servant had given him, to be sure what he could buy. Corbin would know if one of them tried to cheat him, but he _wanted_ to do this right. He didn't want Corbin to have to fix things after.

He was focused on counting the coins, trying to suppress the sudden wave of fear. He only barely heard a voice hiss the word "gypsy," before he was slammed into the wall.

—

The child looked up, half-dazed, into the angry face of the store keeper.

The store keeper dragged him to his feet and towards the back of the store. The child struggled to get free, but the store keeper yanked on his arm, forcing the child to fall to the floor again. "Would someone give me a hand back here?" the man called.

"Please," the child cried. "Please, let me go!"

Two other people came forward and picked him up and carried him through the back door. The child kicked and yelled and bit and screamed and scratched.

The store keeper slapped him, cutting the child's lip. "This is the last time you'll steal from _this_ village, you filthy little vermin!"

"What—? _No_! I didn't steal nothing! Let me _go_!"

The struggles had drawn a crowd, but none of the people looked interested in helping the child. Of those who could see into the store, most looked bored; others watched the child with anger, or what looked like hatred, and only the presence of the men who held him prevented _these_ others from touching him.

The child managed to bite the hand of one of those who held them, the soft, tender part between the thumb and forefinger. The man yelped and dropped him.

The child rolled to his feet and tried to get away, but someone else in the crowd grabbed him and shoved him back towards the store keeper.

Two more people held the child against a counter, using their full weight to restrain him.

"We ain't had so many problems with thieves until you people came around," another man snarled. "We ain't had to use this punishment in a _long_ time, but now you'll see _why_ we don't get thieves around here."

One of the child's captors grabbed his arms and stretched them out across the counter. The child's face was pressed down; he couldn't see what they were doing to him.

Someone grabbed his hands, and he felt something long and sharp along his wrists.

It moved across his wrists...pressed into his wrists...pressed harder and harder....

The child's pleas turned into wordless shrieks as he fought to get away. But he couldn't even _move_—

The weight against him suddenly vanished, and he collapsed to the ground, sobbing uncontrollably.

The last thing he saw before he blacked out was the servant screaming and waving a knife at the crowd.

—

"What the hell is the _matter_ with you people!" the servant growled, pointing the bloody knife at the mob. "I swear, the next one to touch that boy—I don't care if it's today or fifty years from now—I'll _bury_ this knife in your skull!"

"Oh, get out of my way, will you?" a woman's irritated voice said from the back of the mob. The mob, afraid at the servant's anger, made it difficult, but she managed to shove her way through them and past the servant to kneel over the boy.

The servant turned and grabbed her shoulder, forcing her to face him. "I _said_—"

"I _assume_ you don't want him to keep bleeding," she snapped back at him.

He blinked, startled, shaken briefly out of his rage. "Fae?" She jerked her shoulder free and turned back to examine the boy's wounds. The servant turned back to face the mob, a scowl set on his face.

None of them stepped forward to face him, or to try to make excuses for their guilt.

In a moment, she cleared her throat to get his attention. He turned back to see that she'd torn off part of her dress to bind up the child's wrists. "It's not _perfect_," she said, "but it ought to hold till you get him back home, at least."

He tossed the knife to the floor—several of the people jumped at the motion, and he sneered at their fear—and he gathered the boy in his arms. He glowered at the people who remained behind, until they finally parted to let him outside.

Fae helped the servant tuck the boy into the empty cart—he'd brought it for the things he'd bought, but he'd dropped them when he'd heard the child screaming, and he did not intend to go back for them. Then the servant climbed up into the horse's saddle and headed back home. It was a small miracle that the horse knew the way, for the man was so enraged he could not even think to guide it.

—

The following morning, Fae traveled to Corbin's place to look in on the boy. She'd brought some supplies over, to replace those they'd lost in the village.

Corbin immediately refused the supplies. "Take them back, throw them in the river, for all I care!" He waved his hand at her cart. "I will have _nothing_ to do with those idiots, not after _this_!"

"And what do you plan to do for food, then, huh? You're gonna let your boys starve just because those bigots hurt the kid? Are you trying to _finish_ what those idiots started?" She crossed her arms and stared him down.

Corbin stared, open-mouthed. "I...I didn't mean to say...."

"We don't know which of them started it," Zander said from his position on the stairs, "and which were just scared and going along with the rest. He doesn't want to give any more business to them as _chose_ to hurt my little brother." He made a disgusted noise. "Personally, I think he's lettin' them off easy, like he's tryin' _not_ to want revenge. If it were me, I'da been after them soon as I knew what'd happened." He forced a smile onto his face. "Least I would, if I didn't think I'd fall on my face only two steps down the road."

"_Two_ steps?" Fae lifted one eyebrow. "I see _you're_ doing much better than the last time I'd seen you."

"All right, five steps, then."

"Well, if that's all, then you people are in luck." She flapped a hand at one of Corbin's servants, gesturing for some of them to unload the cart. "None of that came from the villagers. I got it all from one of the gypsy clans Benton trades with."

Corbin looked up. "Gypsy...gypsy clans?" He nodded at the servants to start unloading, then gestured for Fae to speak with him.

"Look...um, Fae. These clans...." Corbin chewed on his lip for a bit. "Is there—is there any way you could talk to them? Maybe get one of them to talk to me? I...I mean...." He blew out his breath. "I don't want to give him up, you know I don't, but I was thinking, it'd be a lot easier to take care of him if I actually knew something _about_ him, you know?"

Fae nodded, but said nothing.

"Those wounds are infected, but Perez can't even give him anything for it without knowing some kind of medical history. The guy's scared to death that he'll give him something the kid's allergic to or something and—" He wiped away the tears that threatened to fall. "What those people did to him, it's more than just his fear I've got to deal with. I'm in over my head, here. It's not like taking care of one of my other strays. I don't know what to do anymore. I just—I don't know how to help him."

"I'll be glad to help," she replied. "I can't guarantee results, but I'll do whatever I can." She smiled, the first genuine smile since the boy had been attacked. "You know you only had to ask."

—

"So how much do you know about these people?"

Fae grimaced. "Not much. They like to keep to themselves—and can you blame them?"

The man shook his head.

"Benton said...I'm not sure what their name really means, but he said they introduce themselves as the 'ghost' or 'spirit' clan."

"So how do you figure they'll be around? I mean, after what happened.... If _I_ were a gypsy, I wouldn't even want to be on the same planet as some of those idiots."

"That's _why_ they'll be close," Fae replied. The servant gave her a confused look, and she tried to figure out how to explain. "These people think that kind of stuff happens because of evil spirits, and some of these clans are trying to cleanse the places. Like a whole clan of...I don't know their word for it, but I suppose you might call them shamans, or something."

"When dealing with the _gadje_," another man commented, "we find that 'shaman' is one of the more...acceptable terms."

Fae and the servant jumped at the voice, and turned to face the man. "My apologies, sir," Fae said with a curtsy, "we didn't expect to see you so soon."

"You people never do," the man replied.

"Fae... _Fae_." The servant tugged at her sleeve. "_Look around_."

She did, and saw more than just the one watcher. There were others watching from the road; most had weapons drawn and aimed.

**

* * *

I'd originally thought to have the servant get the story out of the villagers as to why they attacked Doyle, but then I decided I'd rather have him leave in this state of anger.**

**I'll use the "catch-22" argument about being forced to steal (my excuse for why Doyle eventually learns to be a thief, barring any official history from Jay Stephens) elsewhere.  
Probably some time when someone tries to criticize an adult Doyle for being a thief (probably someone else who _also_ thinks all gypsies are thieves).**

**Unless/until J.S. says otherwise, I'm going to say that Doyle doesn't ever become confident handling money (and stop having panic attacks over it) until sometime after Van Rook hires him.  
Does he ever have this kind of problem again, like with the villagers, between now and then? Probably not, at least not that I'll write. Though he continues to be very **_**nervous**_** (at best) about the idea.**

**As to Corbin's reaction: Corbin and company are essentially gentle people. Benton, Corbin and the entire household have livelihoods that **_**depend**_** on being patient, being calm, etc. They are **_**not**_** violent people (Benton's job besides the point).  
And yet when faced with what those villagers did to Doyle....**


	23. Visitors

**I don't own Doyle. I don't own the Secret Saturdays. I also don't own a certain visitor that Corbin and company don't expect.  
I own Fae, Corbin's servants, Dr. Perez, the Mulo Clan, and other unnamed extras. I own the person that the unexpected visitor has been asking about.**

**Though I have used a few terms here and there in other chapters, this is the first chapter I would say that I've "peppered" with Romani terms.  
I try, for the sake of readers who do not know the terms and do not wish to look them up, to provide some way of indicating my intended meaning with each one. Some are actually translated within the dialogue (as when a Romani speaks to a **_**gadje**_**). Some, like the term **_**mahrime**_** (unclean, demon, etc.), I try to imply simply with the attitude or context in which it is spoken (though that may not always happen). Others, however, are kind of...just in there; for instance, I used "puyuria" in this chapter (and others) as somewhere between a title and vague label, to mean "respected outsider" or "outsider who respects our ways" (the second being a **_**very**_** loose interpretation of the "gadje gypsy groupies" that one of my sources gave as translation). Except for this quick note, I don't believe I've given **_**any**_** indication within the story of what I meant by it. For another...the name of the clan (which itself may mean many different things, depending on what site you use for translation; me, I just meant "ghost" or "spirit").  
I have obtained these terms from a variety of websites (Wikipedia included)—most of which I forgot to note down—and I do not actually know the **_**accuracy**_** of these terms or sources. I don't even know what **_**dialects**_** they come from; I've probably used as many dialects as I have words.  
As such, if any of my readers **_**actually**_** know any part of any of the Romani dialects and find errors in how I use the terms, feel free to correct me. Please, also, provide your sources, as I would love to learn more of the language.**

**A warning for **_**customs**_**, however: this Romani clan is (probably) not like other Romani. They are not **_**intended**_** to be like other Romani; they even **_**explain**_** (beginning the next chapter), that they are not like other Romani.  
No, that's not me being lazy with my research (at least not in their case); I do not want them to be like other Romani, and they should explain some part of the reason.  
So if you spot "errors" in their customs and beliefs...they might not **_**all**_** be errors.**

* * *

Stray

"We cannot apologize enough for this misunderstanding, _puyuria_ Faizura Tailor," the warrior said.

Fae tried to wave off the apology. "I understand, elder, truly." She stifled a grin at calling this young man an elder. "Even with your duties, I imagine you can be rather...nervous working so near those who believe so ill of your people."

"Aye, that is nervous enough work," the warrior agreed. "If it were _only_ that, might be we could put an end to it, drive the evil from their spirits, and leave the _gadje_ to their choices." He shrugged. "But in recent years, our own children have begun disappearing from their beds. It may be more of this prejudice...or something worse. We have word of these grey demons snooping about; they sound much like those that your betrothed described, and we've heard much of disappearances in their wake."

"Children?" The servant leaned forward. "_Disappearing_? When?"

"It appears to surge and fade every generation," an old woman replied, ignoring the rules of propriety. "Our own Rom Baro—I believe the _gadje_ might call him the clan chief—lost his daughter more than a year past, though the latest surge had begun about five years before that."

Fae and the servant stared at each other, then Fae nodded and turned back to the clan. "Elders, I cannot pretend to know your customs, so I do not know what rules we might break. But you could not have given us a better opening, and we _must_ take it as given."

The warrior nodded for them to continue.

The servant paused to collect his thoughts. "We have...a number of favors we would like to ask, but they all come down to one problem. My employer has, within his household, a child who Benton and Fae believe is a rom—roma—" He frowned and shook his head. "I apologize. I've heard that some find the term insulting, but a _gypsy_, anyhow." He took a deep breath. "The _problem_ is that we don't know where he comes from, though we think he has been alone for a long time, and we need...information to better take care of him."

The servant looked the warrior in the eye. "If this child is one of your clan, one of your missing children, I _believe_ my employer will send him back to his family if asked. But him and his own boy are quite taken with this child, and do not wish to give him up." He smiled wryly. "He locks himself in his study, of late, looking over books of law and adoption forms, when he thinks nobody's watching."

Fae nodded, mirroring the smile. "And even Zander calls him his 'little brother,' as if the label were the most natural thing in the world."

The smile vanished from their faces, and the servant continued. "But we require your people's help, in either case."

The two quickly summarized what they knew of the child, beginning when Fae had seen him with her cats, adding a few details of Benton's speculations, and ending with the circumstances under which the servant had removed the child from the village. They tried not to elaborate on the attack, but it was clear that they set the anger smoldering in these warriors.

It was the old woman who reminded them to stay calm. "Much as I appreciate the desire," she said in a low growl, "seeking revenge will not undo what those villagers have done to this child. It _will_, however, make further contact with these people less favorable for our own, or for that child, than it already is."

The one young warrior agreed, though he hated to do so. "I would speak to our Rom Baro, first, but I believe he will be willing to help. This child, though—the description you gave...." He shook his head. "I do not know where he is from. He does not sound like any of ours."

"Ah, perhaps—" The old woman thought for a moment. "Yes, he does sound familiar. That young Blackwell child. Jonny—Jonathon—Blackwell. I remember his father took him away from the clan a long time ago."

"Blackwell?" Fae repeated. "The boy might be this Jonathon Blackwell, then?"

But the old woman shook her head. "Before your time, _puyuria_. Truth, almost before mine. I only remember him, because the Elders go on about how our best _chovihano_—that's the shaman, for you—was getting on in years, and had wanted to train Jonny up to replace him. Only the kid's daddy had got scared about these grey demons snooping around, and took his son and ran away from the clan."

"That's not exactly helpful," the servant grumbled.

"No?" the old woman replied. "Well, I don't remember Jonny well enough to know how he'd act—though given what you said this boy's been through, it don't surprise _me_ any that he's all scared—but for his looks, this boy sounds like enough like Jonny as to be his son. Be the right age, anyhow."

The warrior stood up and entered one of the tents.

Another look passed between Fae and the servant.

"Maybe...." the servant muttered.

"Would you happen to know where to find this Blackwell?" Fae asked.

The old woman shook her head again. "Been so long; I haven't the faintest notion where old Blackwell took his boy. But I can ask around, if the Rom Baro agrees."

The warrior returned. "The Rom Baro has authorized me to escort the both of you and one of our healers to this Corbin Revan." He glanced at the old woman. "He has also authorized to help tend to this child, and learn what we can about the boy." The woman nodded, and he looked back at Fae. "When I have verified this Corbin's intentions and reported back to the Rom Baro, _then_ he will determine what information we can provide."

Fae nodded. "Accepted."

—

True to his word, Corbin refused to continue any business in the villages, but when presented with the representatives of the Mulo Clan, he negotiated a deal to trade with them and other Romani clans.

When asked, he eagerly took pictures of the child and passed them along to the clans. Other than the wise woman's earlier suggestion, however, nobody had any idea who the child might be.

The Romani, for their part, continued their business as necessary within the villages; _they_ knew which people were safe to deal with and which to be avoided, and knew a few tricks to punish those who were less accepting.

Fae or one of Corbin's servants often accompanied one of the Romani's warriors on these trips, hoping to learn more of their ways, to improve relations with their people, and to show the villagers that _they_ were willing to accept the Romani.

On one such trip, she overheard a man asking questions. None of the villagers he spoke to recognized the description, but Fae remembered a woman she'd heard about, another Romani who'd been the center of so much trouble.

"You're not the first person I've heard passing around that description, you know," she said, walking up to the man. She tried to suppress her anger at the memory of what she'd heard. And the memory of who had been asking.

He actually jumped, and turned to face her. "Perhaps you know of her, then? Have you seen this woman?" It sounded like he spoke with an accent, though the mask that hid his face also distorted his voice. There was emotion in that voice, but Fae could not decipher it through the mask.

She quirked an eyebrow. "Maybe I have, and maybe I haven't." She inspected her nails. "Didn't know anything when those other fellows were asking around about her. But maybe if I knew _why_ you're looking for her, might be I'd know something of use."

He shook his head. "I cannot tell you that."

"Oh, well," she said with a shrug. "I guess I don't know anything, then."

"Miss, _please_! I cannot tell you why I search for her...but...." His shoulders slumped. "_If_ I assume your intentions are pure...then it might be for the same reason you choose to say nothing." She shook her head again. "Perhaps then, you could at least tell me who else has been asking questions?"

"Nope. Not without knowing why. Though personally...." She glanced around at the villagers. "Whatever your reason, you don't want to put much stock in the gossip mill, hmm-kay? Especially not when the Romani are concerned."

She turned back to Romani warrior. The masked man tried to call her back, but she ignored him.

The warrior gave her a questioning look, but chose to say nothing.

—

"I still don't understand why he can't heal the same. You told me that _Zander's_ illness can't be healed by magic, but these carvings—"

Fae stuck her head in the door to watch Corbin arguing with the _chovihano_—again—then gestured for one of the servants to start unloading the cart. The warrior took up his position outside the door.

The _chovihano_ shook his head. "The magic in those carvings is better than I would expect, especially for the untrained. That the boy accomplished such spells by sheer instinct is...beyond imagining. But those carvings do not _heal_ your son, they _attract_ healing to him. _Physical_ healing. Just as the other carvings the boy had made do not _cause_ results, they _attract_ what is needed. But those villagers have polluted this child's _soul_. Until that is cleansed, his body cannot recover."

Corbin glanced over to where Dr. Perez waited. The doctor shrugged. "I don't know about the 'soul' part, Corb, but from a psychological perspective, he's right. Sort of a...'mind over matter' type of problem."

"His...soul?" Zander asked. "I thought only evil could taint that." Then he blinked. "I mean, like you'd taint your _own _soul by being evil, not because someone evil hurt decided to hurt you."

"His aura, then," the _chovihano_ amended. "His magic."

"But, elder, you said there was _poison_ in his blood," Corbin continued. "I _saw_ it, I _smelled_ it. You cut open his wounds and sucked it out. You've done that every day since you've come. What has that poison to do with his...." He waved his hands. "With his aura?"

The _chovihano_ rubbed at his temples. "There is a thing...one of the names for it is _tulpa_. Have you heard of this thing?"

Corbin shook his head, glanced over to see Dr. Perez and Zander's blank expressions, then shook his head again.

"It is a thing that comes to exist, after we have thought hard enough about it, yes?" a Russian voice replied from the door.

Fae and Zander jumped to their feet to face the intruder. Zander rang a bell to call the servants; it didn't take long before those inside heard running feet.

The _chovihano_ merely smiled. "That is one of the more...simplistic meanings, but accurate enough for my purposes." He turned back to Corbin. "The villagers' thoughts were poisonous, and when they attacked the child, that poison entered into him, as though he were bitten by a deadly serpent. But it has been _that_ poison, not a true venom, that I have drawn from his wounds."

"You don't listen very well, do you?" Fae asked the intruder. "Or do you just not understand when someone wants you to go away?"

"Begging your pardon, miss," the intruder said, "but you never actually said to go away."

"What are you doing here?" she snarled at him.

The warrior and the servant returned.

The warrior fixed the intruder with a glare that was almost as dangerous as Fae's. "_How_ did you get in here?"

But if the man reacted to their hostility, it was hidden beneath his mask. "The villagers sent me here," he replied to Fae, ignoring the warrior's question, "after they saw me talking with you."

Fae snorted in derision. "Didn't I tell you not to listen to the gossip mill?"

"Especially not when Romani are involved," he said, "if I remember correctly. Thing is, miss, I never actually said the woman I was looking for was Romani. Or Gypsy, or any of the other names people give them. But you did." Fae didn't even flinch, and the man sighed. "They told me you were involved in some chaos a week back, involving a Romani. They told me some places to go—not all of them involved being alive...or were physically possible, for that matter—and this was the closest."

Fae straightened up a fraction, and she looked the masked man up and down. "Exactly _why_ do I not believe you?"

"Perhaps," the man slowly replied, "because they did not use the word 'Romani.' I believe one of the more..._polite_ names they used was something to the effect of, uh...." He cocked his head. "'Filthy gypsy vermin.' It was...difficult to convince myself not to teach them better manners."

Fae smiled—the anger in his tone was obvious, even through the mask—and relaxed out of her stance. "I was involved in some...chaos, a week ago," she agreed, "but it had nothing to do with the woman."

"Then I will not trouble you," the man said. But as he turned to leave, Zander returned to his seat at the bedside, and the man caught a glimpse of _who_ lay in the bed....

"Doyle?!" He rushed into the room. The Romani warrior moved to stop him, but the man flung the warrior against the wall. The masked man tore off his mask and threw it to the floor, and leaned over the bed for a closer look. "Doyle? What has _happened_ to—" Then he felt a sharp, cold line on his neck, and he stilled.

Fae had jumped at his movement and grabbed a knife from the man's belt, the knife she now held at his throat. "I would suggest, sir, that you back away from him, _slowly_." She moved the knife a little, forcing him to step back so she could not cut him. "Are you all right?" she asked the warrior, not daring to take her eyes off the intruder.

"I...I think so," the warrior replied, stunned. "Got the sense knocked out of me, is all. Wall decided to remind me why we don't just _rush_ into battle. Guy's stronger than he looks." He shook his head and grimaced. "_Looks_ plenty strong, at that. Probably wasn't even trying."

"You sure you're fine?" the servant asked as he helped the warrior to pick himself up off the floor. "No concussion?"

"Bit of a headache," the warrior replied; Dr. Perez rose to his feet, but the warrior waved him off. "Nothing compared to what the Rom Baro will give me when he hears what a damn fool move I made."

"You...you called him...Doyle?" Corbin said, turning to the intruder.

"It is his name," the other man replied.

"How do you know that?" Corbin asked. "When he came to my home, he said he did not remember his own name. How do _you_ know it?"

"It _is_ his name," the man repeated. "Please, what happened to him?"

"No," Fae said. "_No_. Not good enough. See..._you_ busted in on _us_. Nobody invited you, but here you are. So now, _you_ get to answer _our_ questions."

The man spared one ironic smile for Fae, then sighed. "His name is Doyle Blackwell. His father—"

"Blackwell? _Jonathon_, perhaps?" Fae interrupted, startling the man. He nodded, as much the knife allowed. "Elder, isn't that the name your wise woman told us a few days ago?"

"It is the same," the warrior replied.

"Go on," Fae said to the man.

"I cannot," he said. "More than that I could not tell you. I did not know Jonathon's family as well as I would like; I recognize Doyle only because he looks so much like his father."

Fae made a rude noise in her throat, but she removed the knife from his. She sat down beside Zander and fiddled with the blade, until the _chovihano_ asked to examine it.

"And you know this man," Fae asked, "this Jonathon? You know him well?"

"I _should_," the man replied, irritated. "He has been my mentor for years, since I was about Doyle's age. Since before Doyle was even born."

"Oh, your _mentor_," Fae replied. "Well, perhaps you can ask your _mentor_ just what kind of good-for-nothing would leave his child all alone in these parts! Do you have _any_ idea what kind of idiots live in those villages, what they'll do if they get their hands on a gypsy? I mean, you asked what happened to the child, those _villagers_ are what happened to him. You tell your _mentor_ he'd better have a _damn_ good reason—"

"How _dare_ you speak of Jonathon that way?" the man snapped. He activated a device on his wrist and pointed it at her. "He would never—"

"Oh, put that away," Fae interrupted. She glanced at the outstretched wrist, then pointedly ignored it. She stood up and stared down the man. "You tracked me down because you think I have information you want; do you honestly think it's a good idea to threaten me?" His face turned red, but he did not change his stance. "I mean, even if you're bluffing...accidents can happen, am I right? You wouldn't want to take away a possible source of information. Unless maybe this woman isn't important enough."

The man's face twisted in anger and pain...but he eventually broke off eye contact. After a moment, he turned off the device and dropped his arm.

"Do you think maybe _now_ we can have a proper conversation?" Fae asked.

The man nodded.

* * *

**Fishing for reviews.  
What do readers think of the explanation about the carvings?  
I don't know if something like that will make it into my original fiction, but one never knows....**_**  
**_


	24. Hypnosis

**I don't own Doyle. I don't own the Secret Saturdays. I don't own Van Rook. (You knew that's who that was, right?)  
I own Fae, Corbin and Zander and the rest of the household, Dr. Perez, the members of the Mulo clan, and Vadoma and Jacob (though those two only appear in the course of Van Rook's discussions).**

**Another chapter with some of those Romani terms that may or may not be used accurately. I'd appreciate assistance or verification, if anybody else knows a suitable source.**

* * *

Stray

"And where is this Jonathon now?" Corbin asked.

"I don't...I don't know," Van Rook replied, his mind only half on the question, only vaguely aware of Corbin's suspicion. He shifted his gaze from the knife that Fae held, to the child in the bed, and back again. "I had not seen them in years, though we'd kept contact for a time. I'd heard they were heading for the mountains some while back for some kind of...some kind of specialized training."

He hesitated, then chose not to elaborate. Fae snorted, and he glanced up at her; from her expression, he realized that he might not divert her so easily. _Later_, he mouthed, shaking his head at her. She lifted one eyebrow, but did not press the issue.

"Jonathon is devoted to his family; he would never put them in danger. And the man is a superior fighter. He has few enough enemies that could try him; I would not have thought that any would dare harm his family. But now I must wonder." Van Rook sighed. "Look, you. I have seen such things as a single glimpse would give most people nightmares. I face such things on a daily basis. But seeing the boy alone, without Jonathon's protection.... I cannot begin to imagine how he had been separated, but it unsettles me." He gave another wry smile. "Perhaps I am only being paranoid; Powers know I've made a career of it."

"Perhaps not," the _chovihano_ muttered.

Corbin and Van Rook both rose halfway out of their seats.

"You have something?" Corbin asked.

"You know what is wrong?" Van Rook asked at the same time.

They glared at each other.

"Give it a _rest_, will you?" Zander growled, startling the two men out of their hostility. "_Both_ of you." He turned to the _chovihano_. "Do you have a theory?"

The _chovihano_ replied, "I have been tracing the pollution in this child—Doyle, was it?" Van Rook nodded. "In Doyle's soul—his aura—to its source. Very little was from them like those villagers." The _chovihano_ took a deep breath. "The boy reacted when you began speaking of enemies. And when you mentioned the separation—I felt a twitch, a surge in that taint. I think that something did happen, something that was not...innocent. And I believe this child may know what happened."

"How the boy—Doyle—was separated from his family," Corbin began. He cleared his throat and tried again. "This would help in treating him?"

"I cannot guarantee it, but if the boy _does_ remember how he was separated, and if we determined that cause—" The _chovihano_ shrugged. "I believe your Dr. Perez would understand that knowing the cause of an illness is more useful in the healing than merely treating the symptoms. Even when neither cause nor symptom is of the physical sort."

Dr. Perez inclined his head in agreement.

"So what do we need?" Corbin asked. "The police? A detective? A—" Fae and Van Rook gave him odd looks.

"No, I would need to know what the _child_ knows," the _chovihano_ replied. "I would need permission to put him in a trance...you might say, hypnotize him."

"Permission?" the servant repeated. "Your Rom Baro authorized—"

The _chovihano_ shook his head sharply. "I do not mean the Rom Baro. Ordinarily, I would need the _subject's_ permission for this. If I do not, even with good intention, I risk introducing more taint."

"And of course, since he's a _child_—" Zander began.

The _chovihano_ smiled. "Age is not a concern. I have performed this on children half his age and younger without problem. But not in his state." He nodded towards Doyle's near-catatonic body. "He is ill, he is feverish; he may be delirious. In this, it reverses that 'mind over matter' difficulty; his _mental_ health would need to be well enough for him to _accept_ this type of spiritual healing. Even if I could rouse him enough to agree, he may not understand what he is agreeing to. But without that permission—it would corrupt every spell I might cast from then on."

A _crash!_ sent everyone diving for the floor. Van Rook looked up to see Corbin lift his chair, and leaped back to his feet to stop the man from flinging it back against the wall.

The warrior grabbed the chair away from Corbin, then helped the mercenary wrestle him outside of the room.

Fae followed them out. "What is wrong with you? " she hissed. "Have you forgotten that was a sick room? Since when do _you_ throw tantrums, anyway? Or did you think that maybe that commotion would make things better? Would scare the child out of his shock?"

"What good are you people?" Corbin snarled at the warrior, ignoring Fae. "You come here, saying you can help the boy, you raise my hopes with talk of this treatment, only now your shaman says he can't do it because he can't get the child's _permission_? Why bring it up at all? _What the hell good are you_?"

"If you had bothered to listen—" Van Rook hissed into his ear, and immediately dodged a flailing arm. "If you would _listen_, I'm sure the _chovihano_ would have explained. He _can_ do it if someone else will speak for the boy, _give_ that permission on Doyle's behalf."

Corbin stopped flailing. "What? Speak...on his behalf?" He twisted to face Van Rook. "How would _you_ know?"

"My wife is Romani," Van Rook replied. Fae twitched at the remark; he caught her gaze, then glanced again at the knife she had taken. "This _vitsa_, this clan, is not like her people, but some of their ways are the same."

Van Rook and the warrior dragged Corbin to his feet and they went back into the room. "Is he at peace again?" the _chovihano_ asked. Corbin mumbled a reply and sat down, and the _chovihano_ confirmed that, yes, he could perform this hypnosis if one of them could speak for the child.

"Exactly what would happen if someone _gave_ that permission?" Zander asked. "Someone who maybe shouldn't have? This taint...."

"Would affect whoever spoke for the child," the warrior replied. "Which is why the _chovihano_ does not do this _without_ that permission. But so long as that person is not the healer, it would not affect the healing."

"Then how come you haven't told us before?" Zander asked. "You've been treating him for a week; if you knew you had this option—" He frowned in thought, and glanced at Van Rook, then back at the _chovihano_. "Or did you need to know about his parents, first?"

"No, lad," the _chovihano_ replied. "I had known of this option the whole time; truth, it could have been the most effective way of learning about his parents. But given the boy's condition, it was not to be considered except as a last resort...until now."

"Why?" Zander asked. "Any of us would've spoken for him. Taint or not. Why couldn't—"

"Because not one of us has that right," Fae replied.

The warrior nodded. "Perhaps if he had been in your household for years, if _he_ saw _you_ as family, as his _vitsa_. But no...." He followed the _chovihano's_ gaze to Van Rook.

"You, puyuria Van Rook, you have sworn an oath to your gods, have you not?" the _chovihano_ said. "That oath has bound you to the boy's fate. I can see it in your soul."

Van Rook nodded. "I...named only a single entity in that oath, but yes." He stared for a moment at the knife in Fae's hands, then tore his gaze away with an anguished cry. "The child _must_ come first," he whispered, his voice nearly a sob. He took a deep breath and nodded to the _chovihano_. "Do it. Whatever you think you need. If there are consequences...." He looked at the knife again. "I will deal with them as I must."

—

Doyle had responded to the hypnosis better than they had any reason to hope, but none of them could have expected the answers he'd given.

"I should stop being surprised by what they will to do," Van Rook said.

"You know these grey demons, then?" the _chovihano_ asked the mercenary. He took a sip of the tea Corbin had given them, and tried to settle his nerves. What the boy had described at the beginning was beyond anything he'd experienced in the worst of his visions. The chovihano could not imagine such a monster as the one that the boy had remembered for them.

And then the boy told them about the _second_ attack, after his mother had found him.

If anything good had come of the session, is was that the boy rested _properly_ now, no longer in a catatonic state. Perez had been pleased at how quickly he'd recovered from the blood loss, and impressed at how well the infection had healed on its own; as well that he was impressed, for without any knowledge of his medical history, he still saw little choice but to let that infection continue to heal on its own.

"Grey demons. An apt name for them." Van Rook snorted. "Some of these others, I don't know. Maybe I've met them, maybe I haven't. They blend so well together, I wonder at times if they _breed_ these people to look alike. But this woman who lived—" His face twisted in pain. "She is one of those responsible for slaughtering my family...my Vadoma's family."

The _chovihano_ followed Van Rook's gaze to the knife in Fae's hands. "She gave you that, didn't she?" he asked. "Your wife's _vitsa_ gave you that blade, when they welcomed you into the family." Van Rook gave the _chovihano_ a questioning glance, and the other man shrugged. "It is a rare enough custom for any clan; most cultures believe that the giving of a blade is a poor omen, but there are some few clans who still practice it as the sharing of the hunt."

"They did not give much of a welcome," Van Rook replied, "but then, in-laws tend to be that way. Yes, they gave me that blade, and Vadoma wore its twin."

Fae frowned at the remark, but she did not yet have time to pursue it.

"That is hardly surprising," the warrior remarked. "It is rare enough in some clans for a man to wed a _gadje_, but a woman...." He shook his head. "I am astonished that they welcomed their own daughter back to the clan, much less accepted _you_ into it."

"I did not have another family, to take her away from her own," Van Rook said with a smile. "And my mentor had...words with them, when I had first begun to court her."

"Ah," the warrior replied, with a glance back into the sickroom.

"Some of these memories trouble me," the _chovihano_ said. "There is one stain, associated with the parents' death, or at least _he_ believes it is related."

"One that troubles you more than knowing they were murdered?" Van Rook asked. "More than knowing that he was _tortured_, and that they were murdered before his eyes?"

The _chovihano_ nodded. "This one is blocked."

Van Rook and the warrior gasped.

"How do you mean, blocked?" Fae asked. "Blocked, how? That he blocked the memory? Though if he didn't block out seeing his parents'—"

"Not _that_ kind of block," Van Rook replied.

"Not that could stop the _chovihano_ from seeing it," the warrior added.

The _chovihano_ shook his head. "I believe this one was deliberate. Someone or something with greater power than I has blocked this particular memory from my sight." He sighed. "I can break through to see it; the block was not made to be permanent, only to delay one like myself."

"If it will help the child—" Van Rook began.

The _chovihano_ cut him off with a gesture. "I will not risk it, not even with your permission, _puyuria_. Not until the child has recovered further, at least." He shrugged one shoulder. "He will need more rest before I investigate the rest of the taint, anyhow. Perhaps he will have recovered enough to speak for himself. And before then—" He rose to his feet and summoned the warrior. "I will need to speak to the Rom Baro and the council with what I have learned. Then we shall see where this leads."

After the _chovihano_ and the warrior left, Fae turned to Van Rook. "This woman you are seeking...." She handed the knife back to him. "She wore a knife like this one. Like enough to be its twin."

"Vadoma?"

Fae shook her head. "I did not hear her name, or the name of the man that guarded her. I only know that they seemed fearful, as though they were pursued by the demons of the deepest levels of hell." She looked at the floor. "They were so very fearful, and in such poor shape from the stress, that it is a miracle that she did not lose the baby long before they ever met Benton."

Van Rook blinked a few times.

His thoughts tumbled to a halt.

His mind finally latched onto a single word.

"_Baby_?!" He stared at Fae.

She nodded. "Benton said she seemed only a few months pregnant when they sheltered with him, but that it was difficult to say under the circumstances. When they left only two months later, her health had improved so much, that he thought she might have been further along than he had first guessed."

"Where—where did they go? Is she all right? Did the baby make it? This man she was with...who is _he_?" Each question followed in rapid succession; not even a breath passed between them.

Fae shook her head. "I'm sorry, sir, that's really all I know. Benton is the one that sheltered them. If he were here, he could give you more useful answers. Though it's perhaps as well that he _isn't_ here; he can't afford to get in trouble with the law again."

"How do you mean?"

Fae smiled wryly. "Benton is one of the sweetest, gentlest men you could ever meet—though if you _do_ meet him, don't tell him I said that." She tried to hide a smirk. "He's a...hunter by trade. He catches meat for them as can't get it themselves, or can't afford it, otherwise. His livelihood depends on him staying calm and patient." She scowled. "Of course, so does Corb's, but you saw his tantrum, and that's where the problem comes in."

Van Rook nodded, still dazed.

"They are both usually very calm and patient, but if either one's personal sense of justice is violated.... Well, the difference between the two is that Benton is strong enough to do something about it; he could even give _you_ a challenge, if you cared to try him. He's the one that taught me to fight, by the way." She smiled, but the expression quickly left her face. "If he'd heard what even _one_ of those villagers had done to that child, suffice to say there might not be a village left to interrogate."

—

Van Rook believed that if he brought Doyle on his search, he would likely bring the child into greater danger. But he feared to delay that search any longer, and decided that Corbin and the others were trustworthy enough; he waited for the two Romani to return, so that he could officially give Corbin and the others permission to speak on Doyle's behalf. Once he had reassured himself of the boy's safety, the mercenary set off.

Doyle was still quite ill in a few days, but he had recovered sufficiently that Dr. Perez and the _chovihano_ agreed that the treatment could continue.

Before the _chovihano_ could begin, however, the warrior came into the room and held a whispered conference with Corbin. The warrior looked anxious for some reason.

The _chovihano_ frowned. "There is a problem?"

"I apologize, but the Rom Baro has an...ulterior motive for looking into the boy's fate." He held out a small bracelet.

The _chovihano_ looked at the thing and gasped. "That belongs to the Rom Baro's daughter!"

The warrior nodded. "I found it among the boy's things when we had first come." He forced himself not to look at Doyle. "I have not told the Rom Baro. We are here for the boy, of course; _his_ well-being comes first. But if he knows anything about the Rom Baro's daughter, or of the other missing children—if it will not strain him...."

Corbin thought for a moment. "_If_ it will not strain him," he agreed. "I cannot fault you for wanting to know the fate of your families."

The _chovihano_ set the trance before Doyle was fully awake. The child immediately tried to look around. "Where's—where's the...the pard?" He glanced at Corbin and frowned. "I mean...the lion?"

"On another hunt," the _chovihano_ replied.

Corbin smiled in spite of his fear. So the child had learned some lessons, though he still did not understand their need. "Why does he call him that?" Corbin asked the warrior. The warrior glanced at him. "Doyle...he calls that mercenary a lion; why?"

"Mister Van Rook told me his mentor believed his spirit was that of a lion," Fae said.

The warrior gestured for them to follow him outside. "That one's spirit _is_ a lion." He tilted his head back and gathered his thoughts. "Look, you know we are not like most Romani, yes?" Corbin nodded. "This_ vitsa_, our clan, is Romani, but our tribe is not. Our tribe has many clans, across the globe and beyond. We have not just Romani, but the Aborigines of Australia, the bushmen of Africa, the Inuit and Aleutians and others of the northern lands, the many peoples called 'Indians' in the Americas, and more. We are a tribe of many peoples, bound by _spirit_. Some of us are called to leave the clans we know and journey to others, or to wander alone, as one kind of shaman or another. Other times, there are those who are called to leave their tribes to join one of ours—_usually_ for specialized training." His eyes flicked back to the bed, and he frowned, remembering the mercenary's words. "They would first stop at one of our sacred spirit-homes to make the transition to the new magics, and be on their way." He frowned. "Doyle and the mercenary agreed that Doyle's family had been in the Himalayas when they were attacked; Jonathon was probably trying to reach the spirit-home in Shangri-La."

"And this animal spirit?" Corbin asked.

"Yes, apologies. I don't often lose the trail like that. Our tribe is made up of clans from so many places, and we are bound in spirit even to those we may have never met. It is easy to acquire pieces of one culture's belief or another and incorporate those into the tribe's teaching as a whole. One of those beliefs is that people have a dual-soul, one human and one animal. The mercenary's animal soul _is_ that of a lion; during these sessions, and perhaps also in his fever, the boy sees not the man, but the lion. And as well he does; I do not think he trusts people very much, not after everything that has happened."

They returned to the room to find Doyle in a troubled sleep and the _chovihano_ shaking in anger.

**

* * *

Yeah, yeah, I know, "show, don't tell." I had to work that description of this Romani clan **_**somewhere**_**, and I didn't **_**really**_** need to make Doyle recite everything I've already written in previous chapters, did I?  
_That_ explanation of this Romani clan is one I would like to use (in some form or other) in my original fiction. Please review! (Fishing, again.)**

**This was probably the most difficult one to edit. See, my original version had the New Job arc immediately after the Avalanche arc...and Van Rook knew full well that Doyle's parents were killed, even though he didn't know the circumstances, or Doyle or Drew's fates, until now. (He still doesn't know Drew's fate, but I digress.)  
The new version is that he doesn't know that anything had even happened until the hypnosis session in this chapter. And the conversation couldn't be "slightly" modified to accommodate, the way some other references had been; no, this conversation had to be seriously revised.  
Then the question became that of how to keep the original tone while changing the basic subject.  
**

**Some of my "short" story ideas (as in, not the Skinwalker, Mulo, or Sierra storylines) may refer to Van Rook's oath, and he may even mention it in one of those "main" ones. (Or not, considering the end of "War of the Cryptids.")****  
In most such references, however, he would use it as the reason for certain actions, but the choice to act that way is entirely his. (Trying to excuse himself to certain characters by **_**claiming**_** he's just keeping a promise...even if he has other motives.)  
But in the "main" storylines, I think it probably only influences the situation once...in a scene where the nature of that oath **_**forces**_** his hand. As he puts it, he doesn't have the will to refuse, even to figure out an alternative solution. (If I can get around the WotC ending, that is.)**

**Like my remark about Sol****é****s back in chapter 9, Francis' reveal in "Unblinking Eye" and Van Rook's remark about the grey demons (originally posted before the episode aired) makes me wonder if I had an "aha! I knew it" moment or a really weird coincidence.**

**And speaking of that reveal, ****I think I've finally figured out why the grey demons (*ahem* I mean Grey Men) are after people like Doyle. And Zak. And Vadoma (or rather....) And whoever else I decide they're after.**

**And if the context didn't give that last paragraph away, I refuse to elaborate.  
Why? Because it might not ever come up in the fanfic. Think of it as the fanfiction version of the difference between "author opinion" and "official canon."  
Fanon.  
Whatever.  
You know what I mean.  
Anyway, this one isn't one of those speculations I want to work in to my fanfic somewhere, it's just purely my opinion. As such, it holds no more weight, even within my own writing, than any readers' opinions.**

**So far.**


	25. Recovery

**I don't own Doyle, the Secret Saturdays, or some of the various people that the characters talk about.  
I own Corbin, Zander, and the rest of the household, as well as Fae and the Mulo Clan and some of the **_**other**_** various people that the characters talk about.**

* * *

Stray

"Doyle does not know of those taken by the grey demons," the _chovihano_ said, "but you can tell the Rom Baro that his daughter is dead."

"No," Fae whispered. "Oh, I'm so sorry to hear that."

"Yes," the _chovihano_ said. "And I will need to speak to the clans about these other children he had met."

He told them of the "home" that had kidnapped the boy. He spoke of the children there, Romani and otherwise. Doyle had remembered the Rom Baro's daughter best, remembered her singing.

It was the singing that identified her. The Rom Baro's daughter had always been fond of that wolf protection song, a song that nobody had taught her, in an older dialect that none of the clan but elders long dead could speak.

"Is there something we can do?" Corbin asked. "If some of the children were not Romani—unfortunate that such would be necessary, but then the law might be interested—"

"No," the _chovihano_ interrupted. "These were all orphans, beggars and the like. Children who were already on their own. Children like Doyle, Romani or not."

"Children who won't be missed," Zander translated. "Or at least, that the law won't care about them who _will_ miss them."

The _chovihano_ nodded.

"But that's not what's bothering you, is it?" Fae asked. "Not..._all_ that's bothering you."

"It is bad enough when the _gadje_ seek to exterminate our people," the _chovihano_ replied. "They, at least, have the excuse that they are fighting against foreigners, those who are not their people. No matter that they do to us the crimes they accuse _of_ us." He laid his forehead in his hand. "There is another child he met at this place, shortly before he'd run. I don't believe it was one of our missing children, but the boy believes it was another Romani. This other child...if I could lessen his guilt, it would only be to say that perhaps he'd been stolen from _his_ clan, and made to forget his people."

"What did this other child do?" Fae asked.

The _chovihano_ looked up at her. Tears glistened in his eyes. "He tried to poison Doyle." Zander shared a startled glance with Corbin, and Corbin nodded. "He tried to _kill_ Doyle. And his reason, as Doyle remembers it...his _excuse_ was because Doyle is Romani."

Fae gasped. "But...but you just said this other child is—" She stared at the _chovihano_, horrified by the implication.

"No, he _isn't_," the warrior growled. "By blood, perhaps, but blood, _only_. He is _not_ Romani. And the clans will know of it, soon enough."

—

The _chovihano_ waited until the household was asleep. He set a trance upon the warrior to eliminate any interference, then settled himself to wait.

It did not take long for his visitor to show himself.

"You summoned me, mortal?" the birdman asked.

"What is the matter with you?" the _chovihano_ snarled. "What have you been _doing_ to this child?"

"My job," Anzu replied.

"Your job? Your _job_?" The _chovihano_ shook his head. "Your _job_ is to _protect_ the boy! Your _job_—"

Anzu cocked his head. "Since when do I need a _mortal_ to tell me my _job_?" he asked, his voice dangerously low.

"Deity or not, I can see your mark on this child. Not even the _gods_ can break their promises—"

"Truth, we cannot," Anzu replied. "Our laws forbid it. That's why we take care how we make those promises. One of my brethren prepares for war; you have seen it, haven't you? And you have seen the role that the child must play? I promised to guard him, yes, but only to prepare him for that role."

"By breaking his mind before he has a chance to play his part? Anzu, which side of this war are you _on_?"

Anzu chuckled. "The only side that matters; _mine_. And let me tell you, I may not care for direct intervention—"

"Pah! You're a Trickster; you _thrive_ on direct intervention."

"No," Anzu replied. "It is against our laws; mortals must be allowed their free will. But I will not stand for interference with my plans. You know perfectly well that no god can protect against suffering, not even for a single mortal. He could never be truly safe unless he remained in one of your spirit-homes."

"I know _that_," the _chovihano_ replied, a little sadly. "Suffering is what allows us to learn and grow. The spirit-homes are useful for restoration, but they are too perfect; if he _lived_ there, he would become stagnant." He glared at the god. "I cannot argue with much of what has happened; much of his suffering was by mortal hands, and your only fault was that you did not prevent it. But this other—you _tore_ the _veil_, Anzu! Even an experienced _chovihano_ dares not venture too long in other worlds. But the veil around this child—you've ripped it open."

"It was...an emergency," Anzu replied, his voice carefully bland. "I acted on the first thing that came to mind. But it will repair itself; the veil has been torn before, and has always repaired itself!"

The _chovihano_ blinked in surprise. Was the god...remorseful? _Ashamed_ of his actions? Could it be that he was concerned for the child...or simply for the god's plans for the boy...? What, indeed, compelled the gods to take an interest in _any_ one mortal, at that? "The veil can repair itself in time, yes. And the damage may seem little enough to a god, who can pass through it at will; certainly _most_ mortals would never notice." He glared at the god. "But for a mortal with the boy's power—he is more sensitive with his _instincts_ than most _chovihano_ with a lifetime of training. Can you not see what it will do to him?"

"I know," the god said with a sigh. "And I cannot fix it; the veil will heal on its own, as it always has, but for the child—I dare not risk that again, so soon. Not even to correct my mistake." He smiled. "But you can help."

The _chovihano_ frowned. "How?"

"You wish to protect the boy, yes? And your tribe wishes to purify that which taints these people, these lands."

The _chovihano_ nodded, carefully. "What are you getting at?"

"You can cast a spell on him, one that would protect the child, and not only would it _not_ interfere with me, it may help my plans. We cannot forbid _mortals_ from such intervention, after all."

"What kind of spell?" the _chovihano_ asked. Anzu lifted an eyebrow, and the _chovihano_ frowned at him. "I _don't_ trust you; I cannot agree to anything, not even for the child's benefit, if I don't know what I'm agreeing to, after all."

"Oh, nothing much, nothing much," Anzu said. The _chovihano_ snorted in derision, and Anzu smiled. "I wish to prevent his nature from being influenced by other forces, is all. _Any_ forces."

"You would have him stagnant, after all?"

"No, no, no, change would still be possible." Anzu shook his head. "I would not take that from him. No, he could still learn from his mistakes, still be swayed by a good argument, still learn to recognize friend or foe, still adapt to his environment. But he must _choose_ to do this." The god sighed. "It is those stains on his soul that worry me, _chovihano_. Those are not of his doing, not of _his_ choosing; he was tainted by the mere _presence_ of evil, by a force that he has no control over. I wish to ensure that he can _never_ be corrupted by any force, except if _he_ allows it. I have power enough to do this, but our laws would forbid it. If I gave _you_ the means to cast such a spell...."

"Oh? You've had so much _fun_ manipulating his instincts, Anzu; you would give that up for this protection?"

"Of course not," the god said with a laugh. "But it is still his _choice_ whether to trust those instincts, no matter their source."

"I suppose...if I modify a few variables from the purification ritual," the _chovihano_ mused, "and add that to the protection spell the warriors use...." He frowned, then finally nodded. "Yes, I can do it. I _will_ do it, if only because I cannot see how even _you_ could make such a spell worse."

Anzu nodded. "I will try not to."

**

* * *

**

**Section 1: That line about the song the girl knew, that nobody had taught her, is important. (More to the point, that she _knew_ it, though nobody had taught it to her, is important.)  
In one of the other stories.  
But only if readers pick up on it once I get to that point.  
It's a "because I felt like it" hint at one of the stories that stems from this shared history, rather than an "official" tie between stories. So if nobody spots the connection (which won't happen until I begin posting that other story, but I digress), I'm not worried.  
**

**If you would like to see the original version on which I based the protection song, check out  
gypsymagicspells dot blogspot dot com forwardslash 2010 forwardslash 01 forwardslash wolf-protection-spell dot html  
Thanks to Fanfictiondotnet's web addressing systems, you'll have to replace "dot" with "." and "forwardslash" with "/"  
New readers: this story has been revised a few times since the original posting. I'd originally just had her singing. Then I decided to do that hint, and had to come up with a few details about the song to _imply_ that hint, then I recently came across the aforementioned site.  
**

**Section 2: I threw in that remark about the veil, because at some point in the **_**next**_** arc...I somehow manage to retcon my own fanfiction.  
Though considering I could work in the change just by rewording a sentence or two in an earlier chapter, is it really a retcon?  
I'll probably have more "retcons" as I go along, simply from learning new things as the show continues.**


	26. Discovery

**I don't own Doyle, the Secret Saturdays, or some of the various people that the characters talk about.  
I own Corbin, Zander, and the rest of the household, as well as Fae and the Mulo Clan and some of the **_**other**_** various people that the characters talk about.**

**There are a couple of scenes in this chapter that exist almost entirely because of some vague reference within the show. Like that stack of photos on the floor, in "Van Rook's Apprentice." You'll know which photo I mean when I get to that scene. At least...if you saw the photo.  
I've got another whole arc coming based on another vague (or "blink and you'll miss it," depending on the viewer) reference within that same episode.  
And I'm **_**trying**_** to play around with my camera and computer to enlarge these pictures without ruining the quality. (Digital camera plus LCD monitor...nice combo for my experiments.)**** It's one of those "shouldn't work but does" experiments I learned in speech class. But with a camera instead of a scanner.**** I'll post one of them on my profile if it ever works.  
Which won't happen until I extract the episode from my **_**official**_** volume 2 DVD, then convert to a plain ol' video file, then extract the frames, then....  
There's a lot of steps, just to get One. Single. Picture.  
Or maybe I'll just play the video at slow-speed, set my camera to high-speed video****, ****and record a minute of my screen at a time, then extract the frames from _that_. Still very involved, but less variety of steps. But then I'll need the tripod.  
Or skip the camera and use Irfanview's screen capture, though I'm not sure about the framerate.  
Suggestions?  
**

* * *

Stray

Nearly two months after the attack, Zander found Doyle outside, struggling with a piece of wood.

His hands shook as he picked up the knife and set it to the wood. He pressed down to remove a thin slice—

And dropped wood and knife with a cry of pain. He scrambled after them and tried to pick them up again.

"Doyle?" Zander called. "What are you doing?"

Doyle cowered and looked away, but not before Zander saw the tears in his eyes. "I'm supposed—supposed to—to be making those carvings for you—" He sniffed and tried to wipe away the tears. "I got a job—an'—an' I can't _do_ it; I can't even hold it anymore—"

"You just need to wait until you're done recovering is all," Zander said. "Now come on, come back inside."

"But—but I got a _job_, an'—"

"Doyle, please, _listen_ to me. Perez and that shaman said you're healing quick, they figure your wrists should be strong again in another month or two. But you're not _done_ healing; if you keep this up now, you're just going to hurt yourself worse."

"But I—"

"Doyle...." Zander shook his head, trying not to let the younger boy see his anger; he feared Doyle might think himself its target. _He was doing better. He was starting to _trust_ us, I _know_ he was!_ "Look, your...your _job_ is to do stuff for me, help me feel better, right?" Doyle nodded, slowly. "It's not just the carvings; it...." Zander sighed. "You don't have to _do_ anything to do that. Sometimes, the best way you can help someone is just to _be_ there for them." _Like dad and me are trying to be there for you._ Zander put every effort into _wanting_ Doyle to hear that thought. "That's all you need to do, okay? So just...come back inside. For me?"

Doyle finally nodded, and Zander helped him to his feet and inside.

Doyle tried not to look at Zander, but the older child didn't miss the fear in his eyes. _Now I know how Benton felt__,_ Zander thought. _I don't much like having someone afraid of me. Maybe if I'd run into them that hurt him, maybe, but not _him_, not someone I'm trying to help._

"You found him?" a servant asked, running up. "Oh, you did! Thank the gods, you _found_ him!"

"Yeah, you can tell my dad he was outside trying to do his _job_," Zander said. "Um...is the TV free? I thought I might check and see if there's a game on."

The servant had turned to find Corbin, then turned back at the question. "Yeah...I suppose...." He had a puzzled look on his face. "Why?"

"I just figured since Doyle..." Zander forced himself not to snarl the next part, "needs _something_ to do, maybe he could watch with me."

"Um, well it has been a while since you've been involved," the servant began.

Zander only shrugged. "Then I guess me and Doyle will start on a level playing field, won't we?" Then he groaned. "Oh, please tell me I did not just say what I think I did."

"Sorry, kiddo, but you did." The servant laughed. "Yeah, I'll let your pop know what you're up to."

"Hey, thanks," Zander called over his shoulder. He led Doyle through a few more rooms before finally stopping at one with a number of metal boxes. He fiddled with the buttons on some of them for a while, and tried to talk to Doyle over his shoulder. "Top of the line, dad says. Brand new set. I can control all of it with just one remote—" he gestured with the small, flat object in his hand, then pointed at some of the smaller boxes. "An' you see all those speakers? You can make it sound like you're really in the show."

He smiled at Doyle, but the younger child did not smile back. Doyle didn't even look at him; he just stared off into space.

_Catatonic again?_ Zander wondered. But no, Doyle reacted to his surroundings. Not that this reaction was much better. "Here we go," Zander said. He pressed a few more buttons, and the soccer game came in clearly. "Wow. It _has_ been a while. I don't recognize any of these teams."

—

They watched the game for about half an hour, when Zander turned to Doyle and asked if he knew what was going on.

"I don't really know," Doyle mumbled. "I thought—" He glanced at Zander, then stared at the floor.

"Go ahead. It's all right," Zander said. "Take your time if you want."

"Well, I—I kind of thought it was maybe like a couple of wolf packs fighting over who gets to hunt, but.... But they weren't trying to catch nothing, so I don't know."

"Wolf packs?" Zander thought about the analogy. "Yeah, sure, wolf packs. Only except for running their prey down like wolves, they got to catch it in the net, see? And they only got so much time to catch it. But they want to see which team—which pack—can catch more prey in the time they got. But do you see how they catch _more_ prey? 'Cause they only got the one thing to chase." He waited for Doyle to reply.

"They...take it out of the net and start over?"

"Right! And when the game's done, whoever caught the most prey—caught it the most times, rather—gets to go on and face another...pack, and see which of them can do better."

"So..." Doyle began, and hesitated. Zander gestured for him to continue. "So every time they win against one pack, they just keep going at it?" He frowned. "How come?"

"Well.... If we're looking at the ball as prey, I suppose you could say it's for territory." Zander shrugged. "Yeah, whoever catches more prey in a game gets to keep their territory for longer, and if they win enough times, they get the chance to...to hunt in other territory, I guess, get more kinds of prey."

Doyle stared at him, and Zander had to force himself not to laugh at the younger child's incredulous expression. "_Wolves_ and them would take what they got and be done; they only fight a little, and only if they _had_ to. But these...teams got to do this a lot? How do they fight over it, anyhow? Must be all the territory owned by one pack, by now." He frowned. "No, younger wolves could fight the older ones for control, but...." He shook his head. "That'd still be one pack, just different wolves controlling it."

"Uh...not exactly," Zander replied. "Like the man said, it's been a while since I've been involved, so I don't remember the numbers too well. But I know there's only so many games in a year. After the last game's played, everyone's got to go back to their original territories, and the next year, they start the whole thing over."

Doyle shook his head, unable to comprehend such madness.

Zander chuckled at the look on his face. "If you think _that's_ bad, you got to really watch out for the audience." Doyle glanced up, and Zander pointed at the people he meant. "The people watching the game. Sometimes they get into fights—_real_ fights, not chasing the ball around—about which team is better. Which of _them_ wins doesn't affect the game, but that don't stop them from fighting."

"What—what _do_ they get out of it, then?"

"A couple hours in jail," Zander replied. "Unless maybe they do some real damage."

"Zan—Zander?" Doyle said after a few moments. "How do you know so much about this...game?"

Zander winced at the fear in the younger boy's voice. _Least he's asking questions, again,_ he decided. _Least he's _willing_ to ask, without needing one of us to prompt him._ "Ah, I don't know a _lot_ but.... My mom and dad used to play. It's how they met, actually, from rival teams. They decided they liked each other and...stopped playing and came here." He looked up at Doyle. "You know what I mean by that?"

"Um.... They came from different packs?" Doyle suggested, and Zander nodded. "And they left their packs and joined up to start their own?"

"Eh, sort of. Didn't start up a new soccer team, but they had _me_." Zander sighed. He hesitated, unsure of how Doyle might react, then plunged on. "Dad said this used to be a great place to live, good place to raise a family; people around here were friendly and all, nothing like they are now. Only...mom and me got sick. Nobody could say what was wrong with us, and dad doesn't talk much about what happened, and...." He rubbed at a stray tear. "By the time anyone figured out how the people had changed, mom was gone, and dad was scared I wasn't strong enough to travel. So we _had_ to stay."

The game was over, and Corbin found them and shooed them both off to bed. Zander wanted to talk more, to encourage Doyle to ask more questions, but he knew better than to press too hard.

He stood outside Doyle's room for a moment. "And I'm _glad_ we stayed," he whispered. "'Cause now you got yourself a big brother. I just wish we could get you to understand that."

—

A few days later, Doyle had recovered enough to move around more, and Zander decided to _show_ him how to play soccer.

Zander dug out a ball and talked one of the servants into setting up a few logs in place of a net. Then he proceeded to tell Doyle some of the rules. "'Kay, first, you don't ever use your hands in the game. Well, not unless you're guarding the...the net," he pointed at the logs, "but since there's only the two of us, we ain't going to worry about that." He smiled. _At least he don't need to wait 'till his hands recover for this._

"You can kick the ball, hit it with your knee or whatever if it goes high enough. I've seen people who played so long, they learned to hit the ball with their heads. Most just kick it, though, and that's all we need to do for a while. There's lots more rules in the big games, but I figure that's good enough for now." Zander placed the ball on the ground, perhaps ten feet from the "net." "Right now, I gotta try to kick the ball into the net, and your job is to stop me."

"S—_stop_ you?" Doyle replied nervously. "I—I don't know...."

"Well, I suppose you could stand by if you wanted, but if nobody tries to stop me, it don't mean much if I get the ball in, right?" Zander tried to catch Doyle's gaze. _Note to self: Stop pulling this stunt on pushovers; I _hate_ myself for using it on him, and he _needs_ it._ "Please, Doyle? Try it, for me?"

Doyle mumbled an agreement.

Zander kicked the ball around a few times, to get a feel for the activity, to refresh memory and remind muscles how they worked. He had to remind himself not to act defensive when Doyle started following him; some moves that were technically legal, even a few that good sportsmanship allowed, would probably scare off the younger boy for good. Time enough to teach him that part when Doyle's confidence improved.

Zander glanced over at Doyle, checked the angle to the logs—_Not too hard, now; we've _both_ been stuck in bed for too long_—and drew back and kicked the ball.

And it bounced off Doyle's foot and away from the logs. Doyle jerked his leg back and looked between the ball and Zander. He looked like he wanted to run away.

"Hey, good job!" Zander said with a smile. "Much better than my first time; do you know, it took me about a year before I'd stop running away from the thing?" He grabbed the ball and returned to his starting position. "All right, it's your turn. _You_ try for the net, and _I_ got to stop you, 'kay?"

—

Corbin found Zander in the stable a few days later, staring into Viper's stall. "What's the matter? Not enjoying your game?"

"Oh, hey dad," Zander mumbled. "Yeah, it's fun, but that's—that's kind of the problem."

"Oh? How so?"

"Well.... I don't think _Doyle's_ having any fun."

"I think," Corbin slowly replied, "that he just doesn't realize yet that he's _supposed_ to be having fun."

"I've been trying to show him that," Zander said. "I want to show him that it's okay to enjoy himself, and I know I got to be able to have fun _myself_ so he can see what it's like, right?" Corbin nodded. "Except then I think about _why_ he ain't having fun, and it makes me feel kinda rotten, like maybe it's wrong of me to think about fun when _he's_ hurting." Tears formed in his eyes; he didn't even try to wipe them away. "Before those people attacked him, I'd seen him smile lots of times. Usually got surprised into it, but at least he _smiled_. Now it's like he's forgotten how; I haven't seen him smile _once_, not even when he's with the animals."

"Zander, you know these things take time," Corbin said. "We'll keep working on him, don't worry about that. You just have to remember to be patient."

"I know," Zander said with a sniff. "I know, I'm trying. It's just—if I could see him smile once—it wouldn't have to be real, even, maybe that he smiles only 'cause I want him to, or something—but if I saw it once more, maybe I'd know I'm doing something right. That's the _worst_ part, dad. I don't understand what he's going through. I mean, the _animals_ understand how he feels better than _I_ do! I see him like this, I want to help him, but I don't even know if I _can_.... It hurts, dad. Not like he's hurting, but it still _hurts_."

"I know, I know," Corbin whispered, embracing his son. "I know what you mean. First time I felt like that was when you and your mother got sick."

"Least that was like an accident, though," Zander said, his voice muffled in Corbin's arms. "Just something that _happens_. I mean, it wouldn't have made you feel all rotten and ashamed of yourself, just for being part of the same _species_ as the people responsible."

Corbin gave a start at the remark, but chose not to answer. Zander was too wrapped up in his misery to notice.

—

Zander was determined to find some way to make Doyle smile again. He didn't particularly care anymore if he gave the younger boy a _good_ reason; at this point, it was enough if Doyle was confident enough to smile.

Doyle continued to take part in Zander's games. Both children continued to grow stronger, and they spent more time outside every day, and Zander tried to increase the size of their "field."

One day they chased the ball behind the stables. Zander ran back to retrieve it, when he heard a noise that made him spin and fall to the ground. "_Viper!_" he yelped, scrambling to get away from the stallion. "How'd you get out of your stall?"

Viper ignored the older boy and went to investigate the younger. Zander tried to tell Doyle to get away, to tell him the stallion was mean, but the warning died on his lips. He stared in amazement at what he saw.

Viper mouthed Doyle's hair for a moment, then nudged at the child's chest. The stallion got to his knees so Doyle could reach to pet him behind the ears. Viper's eyes closed in bliss.

And Doyle _laughed_.

"What're you asking _me_ for?" Doyle said. "I don't know; I'm not the one with all the rules!"

"Doyle?" Zander managed in a squeak. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Doyle, were you—were you _laughing_?"

"Yeah," Doyle replied. "Viper showed me what he thought we looked like, and...." The smile vanished, and he gave Zander a look that the older boy couldn't decipher. "Sorry," he finished in a mumble.

_Viper showed...?_ "He probably thought we looked real silly," Zander said after a moment, forcing a smile. Doyle only nodded in reply, his expression guarded again.

Viper gave a sigh that—in any other animal, any other _horse_—Zander might have thought was regret, and nudged at Doyle again.

"Okay," Doyle said to the horse. He turned back to Zander. "Viper says I got to ask you, on account of _you_ can't hear him—" The stallion whinnied, and Doyle winced and gave that look again. "Sorry, I didn't—didn't mean to say it like that."

Zander recognized _that_ tone. His dad's servants had spoken in that tone a lot when he'd first gotten sick, if they tried to talk about it and realized only after if they'd said something rude.

"Anyway, Viper says _I_ got to ask you, but he wants to know if he can guard the 'net' for us."

Zander stared between Doyle and the stallion. Was Doyle actually saying that—? "Um...sure," he said, still a little dazed. Zander climbed to his feet and repeated the rules they were using so far, and listened to Doyle repeat them to the stallion.

He didn't know what to make of this. There was no way the stallion could understand the game just by being told the rules, but Doyle _had_ smiled again. _And laughed!_ Zander thought, amazed. If Doyle wanted to think Viper could play along, Zander decided he wasn't about to argue.

Shortly into the game, Zander started to wonder if maybe the horse _did_ understand...though Viper seemed to let the ball through an awful lot when it was Doyle's turn to kick.

**

* * *

Section 1: Darn, I wanted to use the "can't set the clock" gag. But apparently, a programmable timer was introduced for VCRs back in the 70's, and between my guesses about Doyle's age and the general flow of my timeline, **_**this**_** arc takes place in the mid-80's. And I want that TV set to be "new" technology.  
**

**Section 2: That entire "wolf pack" analogy was originally supposed to be how **_**Doyle**_** explained the notion. (Remember in "Once More the Nightmare Factory," when he referred to the family as running around in a "pack?" That sounded wolfish to me. I mean, how many people think of a group of **_**humans**_** as a pack? Of course, I could be wrong. I could just be biased, grabbing up anything that could verify my pet theories by even the **_**loosest**_** interpretation...and ignoring anything that violates them. So, you know, I **_**might**_** be wrong. It's...theoretically possible.)  
That was before I decided he'd become near catatonic after that attack, and was afraid to speak even when spoken to, and so on and so forth.  
*sigh*  
Oh, well. It still, technically, came from Doyle's interpretation, so I **_**suppose**_** it serves my purpose.**

**Section 4: Urk! Guess I got a little too **_**into**_** that scene. I kept having to run off to wipe my eyes....**

**Sections 2 and 4: Still wondering about the cause of Zander's illness. I have my own theories, but I doubt they'll influence the story any (and I'd prefer that they don't), so I'll try to leave it...ambiguous.  
It's another "author opinion versus fanfic/personal canon," so....  
Feel free to speculate!**


	27. Testing

**I don't own Doyle. I don't own the Secret Saturdays.  
I own Corbin, Zander, the servants, the animals, and whoever else shows up occasionally.**

**Much of this chapter exists simply because I'm playing around with the "psychic versus magic" mentality, and attempting to further develop some ideas in that direction for my original fiction.  
Well, that and the fact that I believe that **_**all**_** children are psychic to some extent—some just outgrow it as they get older, for a variety of reasons.**

**At the bottom, I have a basic explanation of what I was **_**trying**_** to do with Doyle's abilities.**

**Timing: Same day, or maybe the day after, as the previous chapter.  
**

* * *

Stray

"Dad?"

"Hmm?" Corbin looked up from his book to see Zander's dazed expression. "Hey, what's wrong? Did he get scared off?"

"Who? Oh, Doyle." Zander swallowed. "No, he's fine...I think." Zander slid down the wall to a sitting position. "Um, dad? Horses are smart, right? I mean, you can train them kinda like dogs?"

Corbin put down the book and tilted his head back. "There's some debate over _how_ smart horses are; most people think dogs are quite a bit smarter, but yes, they can be trained just the same." He smiled. "If the _human_ is smart enough, at least."

"Could you...could you train 'em to play soccer? Like, say, just take a few minutes and tell 'em what to do, and then they'd be ready? Or—or maybe they could _watch_ a few games, and then you tell 'em the rules?"

"What? No," Corbin replied. "Yes, they're smart enough to learn; no, not that quickly. No _human_ could ever learn that quickly; we certainly couldn't train an animal any better. There's too many things that we take for granted, that a horse won't understand the same way, maybe won't understand at all."

"Like Doyle doesn't understand when someone's just being nice," Zander muttered. A little louder, he said, "What about Viper?"

"Viper is...." Corbin thought for a moment. "Viper cannot be trained. At all. Not that he isn't smart; he's _plenty_ smart, smarter than most humans—not that that's saying much. If he wasn't, he'd go after any human he saw. But after what his owners did to him...." He shrugged. "He's better than any guard dog, but the best I could train him is to convince him not to hurt my family."

"Oh, okay."

"Zander, are you okay?" Corbin knelt in front of him and peered into his face. "You kids haven't been overworking yourselves, have you?"

"N—no, I just saw...." Zander shook his head. "I don't know _what_ I saw." He let his dad fuss over him for a moment. "Dad? You remember what Benton said about Doyle? That thing with the foxes? And how Doyle seems to trust animals, even though he doesn't do well with people?"

"Can you blame him?" Corbin replied. "_Animals_ are not cruel, for sake of being cruel. Survival, maybe, but not just to be hurtful." Then he remembered that hypnosis session, and the first vaguely remembered monster. "_Usually_." They didn't know why the creature had attacked, but there had been something disturbing about Doyle's memory of it, something that nobody could identify.

"No—well, yeah, but not just that. I think—I think he can _talk_ to them. And—and he can understand them."

Zander told his father about the latest game, and about how Viper had taken part. Corbin sat patiently, listening to and analyzing what most other parents would have thought pure make believe.

"And you know something? Viper playing goalie wasn't even the weirdest thing."

"How so?" Corbin asked.

"Doyle, he—when he said something about me not being able to hear Viper, he—he seemed _surprised_, like he hadn't known I couldn't hear them. And...." Zander shook his head, trying not to laugh. "I'm actually wondering if I should feel annoyed about it; I think he felt _sorry_ for me. Like me not hearing them meant I was crippled or something."

—

"All right, boys, I've got a new game for you," Corbin announced a couple of days later. "Zander, you may remember this one, but it _has_ been a while, and I've changed out the rules a bit."

He sat down at the table and motioned for Doyle and Zander to join him, and then laid down a few sheets of paper and a deck of cards.

"What I have here are called 'Zener' cards," Corbin said. "Each card has one of five pictures, a circle, a star, a cross, a square, or a set of waves." He drew each symbol as he named it. "I've a deck of fifty, meaning ten of each card. I will take one card at a time, and both of you—_separately_, mind—need to guess which picture is on the card. Whatever your guess, write it down. Do you both understand?"

Both children nodded.

"Take however much time you need, and...let us begin." Corbin shuffled the deck, then took one card from the top. Once the children wrote down their guesses, he noted what symbol was actually on the card and laid it aside, then took up another card. This continued until the entire deck was used.

After they finished, Corbin sent the boys off while he and one of the servants helped to compare the lists.

"So what's the deal with this test, anyway?" one of the servants asked. "Aren't these for precog, at least the way you did it? Thought you wanted to check for telepathy?"

"I'd thought I might use the cards for that," Corbin agreed. "But if he _is_ precognitive, _this_ will show if I need to find some other test."

"Hey, Corb?" another servant said. "Did you..._show_ them which cards you had?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Did you shuffle the deck after?"

Corbin blinked. "Um, no, I don't believe so."

The servant showed him another pattern. At the beginning of the test, their guesses were statistically plausible, though Zander showed a little more accuracy than Doyle. Their misses, in terms of _what_ they missed and how often, seemed to be all over the place. As they progressed, their accuracy seemed to improve significantly. Towards the end, Zander correctly guessed all but five of the last twenty cards; those other five were merely out of order. Doyle correctly guessed _all_ of the last twenty.

One of the servants glanced at the list and whistled. "Advice, Corb? Don't play poker with these two. Ever."

Corbin looked at the lists again with a sheepish expression. "Oops."

—

The next morning, after breakfast, Corbin explained the results to the two boys. "I'm told this kind of memory is very...rare." He gave Doyle an amused grin, and said, "If you weren't learning your numbers, _this_ could not have happened."

Then he sat down and tried the test again. This time, after marking down which card he actually had, he shuffled it back into the deck before drawing the next card.

They took these tests several times over the next week. The results suggested talent in both children, but the evidence was negligible enough that further testing could go either way.

Corbin decided that the evidence was so slight that if Doyle really _could_ understand animals, the difference would be clear, and he chose to proceed with the next step.

Over the course of the next two weeks, Corbin arranged for one child to see the cards, and the other to guess. When Doyle saw the cards, Zander guessed right about 80 percent of the time.

When Zander saw them, Doyle's guesses were no better than before, though the patterns seemed a little more regular.

Corbin made a note to look into that, and went on to the next step. He took Doyle outside and convinced him to put on a blindfold, then proceeded to show the cards to whichever animal they could convince to sit still long enough.

Viper came along, and Doyle sighed. "Mister Corbin, sir, Viper wants to know why we got to do this."

"_That's_ why we're doing this," Corbin replied. "Because you think you can understand the animals."

Doyle took off the blindfold. "What do you mean? Of course I can understand them." He looked confused. "I never seen anyone else guessing these cards, so what's that got to—"

"Not everyone can understand animals, Doyle," Corbin said. "Outside of stories told for fun, you're the first person I've heard of who can."

"But—but you guys talk to your animals all the time. And them farmers—"

Corbin shook his head. "We talk to them, yes, and some people learn to understand their body language. But we do not understand _them_; we do not understand what they say. It's not even that we can't understand their language, either; we don't hear or see anything that we could even _try_ to translate. I don't know what it's like for you, Doyle, but it's not like just another language to us. Not to the rest of world."

Doyle stared around him. He thought about the weird looks people had given him when he talked to their animals. "You—none of you can understand them? You can't _hear_ them?"

"Not one of us," Corbin repeated.

Doyle told them that Viper agreed to the test, and the stallion lay down to watch the cards while Doyle turned around with his blindfold on. Corbin proceeded to show the cards to the stallion one at a time, and Doyle named them off as they came.

"Star. Circle. Waves. Star. Square. Circle. Sq—" Viper whinnied, and Doyle changed his answer. "Uh, Star." He turned around. "Viper! You're not supposed to correct me _out loud_! You're just supposed to think it at me."

"That's all right," Corbin said. "Let's just keep going."

After they'd checked with several animals, they compared Doyle's answers with the actual cards, and discovered he'd erred only about 5 percent of the time. Upon examining the lists more closely, they saw that he'd mixed up a few squares and stars, but made no other mistakes.

—

A week had gone by in this manner when Zander asked to try something. He wanted to try sending again, but with a new tactic.

Corbin agreed, and when Zander saw the cards, and tried to think them at Doyle, the younger child guessed right perhaps 60 percent of the time. He still mixed up squares and stars, and occasionally circles were thrown into the mix, but it was definitely a case of mistaking one specific image for another.

Corbin frowned at the results. "How—how did—" He glanced at the results again. "Is he getting better at this? At reading you, I mean?"

"I don't know, maybe," Zander replied. "Or maybe he's reading me different."

"Different how?"

"Well," Zander said, "when we did this before, when I saw the cards, I thought about what the things were called. I thought the names, the words. But when _he_ saw them...I don't know what he thought, but everything I got from him was pictures. I didn't get the word 'star,' I got the picture of the star. Same with the others. Same as when you had us writing them; I wrote it, he drew the picture." He turned to Doyle. "That's how they do it, isn't it? The animals?"

Doyle nodded. "Everything's pictures or sounds and stuff to them. Closest they get to words is if it's something they don't _have_ an image for, and they got make sure I understand—like maybe a person's name. But then, they don't send the word, they send.... They send the sound of a two-legger—a human—_saying_ the word."

"But when I tried to think at you before, I used the words," Zander added. "I didn't do it the way you're used to with them, did I? So you didn't understand it the same. And I used the pictures this time, so you understood it better." Doyle nodded.

"He still did a lot better with the animals than he did with you," Corbin said. "Even this way."

"So he's better at picking them up than he is me." Zander shrugged. "He understands them differently. He made the same mistakes, so maybe it ain't _always_ clear, and I'm a little less clear than they are. Like when you got a new TV, and some channels come in better?"

Corbin finally shrugged off the whole discussion and left the two to talk.

"So can you hear them okay, now?" Zander asked.

"Not always," Doyle replied. "It's like—" He looked out the window and pointed to the stables. "I can 'hear' them talking, but none of them are talking to me right now. I mean, _Viper_ is, but the rest...." He shrugged. "I guess it's more like when your servants are all talking, maybe if you listen hard enough you can hear what they're saying. But they're all talking at the same time, and none of them are talking to _you_, so it's harder to pick out." He glanced back towards Viper and shook his head. "No, that isn't right, either. If your servants were all talking, it'd be hard to hear one of them even if he _was_ talking to you. But I can hear Viper just fine over the others...." He shook his head again. "I don't know."

Zander nodded. "You said Viper's talking to you right now?"

"Yeah, he's telling me it's all right to tell you about it."

Zander blinked at that remark. Was that why Doyle was suddenly willing to talk? Because one of the animals said it was okay? "So how's he sound? To have him actually talk _to_ you?"

"Be like if one of your people came down and whispered in your ear, only.... It don't sound _quite_ like it."

"Like a different accent? Or a different language?"

"Um...." Doyle had to think about that. "Accent, probably. Only it's the humans who sound like they've got an accent."

"What if...." Zander thought carefully. "What if they didn't _want_ to be heard? Not like they just weren't trying to talk to you. What if they want you _not_ to hear it?"

Doyle shook his head. "Never tried it. I suppose there might be a way to hear them, but I probably couldn't do it."

—

Weeks passed, and the testing continued in its various forms.

Zander came downstairs once to see his dad going through the deck. Doyle's head was on the table, his arms covering his face.

"Wave. Wave. '_Nother_ wave. Wave. Wave." His voice was muffled by his arms, but he sounded tired. "Still a wave."

"Hey, dad," Zander called. "Thought you'd eliminated the pre-cog."

Corbin shook his head. "I've eliminated the possibility that it could interfere with other tests. I have _not_ eliminated it as a possible talent, for either of you." He looked at the deck with a strange expression. "This particular session has proven...odd, however."

"How so?" Zander asked.

Corbin gestured at Doyle, who continued to call out wave after wave. "These results are a statistical near-impossibility."

Zander snorted. "Isn't that kind of the point? See if you can guess a lot better than what the odds say will happen?"

"He's been right about 70 percent of the time, with the _same guess_. Zander, I've drawn these cards a hundred times already, and almost every single one has been a wave. Since I have shuffled the deck every time, I could, theoretically, have missed some cards in so many draws, but to draw from the same group of _ten_ nearly every time?"

Zander's eyebrows shot up. "Hey, Doyle, don't you think you should pick another guess? You can't on getting waves all the time, can you? Even though you _have_."

"I ain't guessing anymore," Doyle mumbled.

"Hmm?"

"I said I ain't _guessing_." Doyle pulled his head out of his hands. His expression was guarded as always, but Zander corrected his earlier thought; Doyle sounded _bored_. "I'm _done_ guessing. I chose a picture, and I want that picture."

Zander and Corbin shared confused looks. Zander reached for the deck and turned it over. He flipped through the cards and placed them in front of his father, one by one.

Over half the deck was waves.

Zander collected those that were not and laid them out, face down. "Doyle, do you want _these_ cards to be waves?"

Doyle looked at him, then at the indicated cards. "Yeah, sure." He laid his head in his arms again.

"Which one, Doyle?" Zander pointed at the cards. "Which one do you want to be a wave?"

Doyle looked again and pointed to a random card.

"But that one's a cross," Corbin muttered.

"I want it to be a _wave_," Doyle said.

"Dad?" Zander took the indicated card and flipped it over.

It was a wave.

—

The next day, Corbin found a couple of packs of regular playing cards, with different color backs, and began testing another theory.

As the testing advanced, they learned that Doyle had a limited ability to change things, though it seemed to drain him.

In one such test, he showed Doyle a card from each deck—a four from the red deck and a three from the blue, then flipped them back over. "Now, then, can you swap the three and the four?"

"Dad, I really don't think—" Zander began.

"Easy, Zander, I just want to see."

Doyle looked at the cards for a moment. "Done," he said with a sigh.

Corbin glanced down. The cards were in the same position he left them. "They're not changed."

"Maybe they're not changed 'cause you're pushing him too hard," Zander muttered.

"I _did_ swap 'em," Doyle protested.

"Dad," Zander whispered. "Remember how I talked about wanting Doyle to enjoy himself? I don't think he's enjoying himself."

"Try it again," Corbin said. To Zander, he whispered, "What do you mean?"

"I don't know if he was having fun when this started, but I _know_ he ain't having fun, _now_. You're not even looking at helping him, anymore. You're just pushing him so you can see what he can do, making him do this until he can't do anymore. You ain't like that, anymore."

Corbin gave a start. "Sorry," he said. "Sorry, I wasn't thinking." He looked up at Doyle and forced a smile. "Ah, what am I doing? You're wanting to sleep, and here I am, testing you like some kind of lab rat. Go on, off to bed with you."

Zander and Doyle both went off to bed, and Corbin started to clean up the cards.

He picked up the two on the table and flipped them over.

The blue card was a four, and the red card was a three.

**

* * *

Long explanation, but probably better here than trying to work it into the chapter.  
I have a few "psychic" abilities I've given Doyle (three, in particular) that I plan to work into my original fiction. Namely that, though not _everybody_ of this particular group has these abilities, they are rather...common among people with certain _other_ abilities (one of the later steps of that "animals behave strangely" business). Kind of like the "Required Secondary Powers" as explained on TVTropes.  
Or not. **

**First, most important—and given previous chapters, probably the most obvious—I'm trying to say that Doyle has a telepathic ability.  
However, since he picks up animals better than he does humans, and since animals in general don't think the same way humans do, there's my hand-wave for why it doesn't show up in official canon.  
The only way I see canon ever contradicting that one (or rather, that theory contradicting canon) is if JS decides he **_**is**_** telepathic...but understands humans better.... (Unless it comes up in the show—or somebody asks him—I doubt JS will come out of the blue and say "Doyle's not telepathic," so there goes **_**that**_** contradiction.)  
Otherwise, it's a case of "it's not canon, but it could happen."  
****The telepathy has another affect that has already shown up now and again throughout my story, though I've never actually mentioned it as such, outside of Doyle's attempt to explain it. I haven't decided if I will mention it, let alone explain it, outside of certain key other stories (namely, stories in which someone else has a similar ability).  
**

**Second, and here's where it got weird: I don't want to say that Doyle is precognitive or anything else. Yes, at some point, I start giving him precognitive dreams, but I don't want to include that in the list of his personal talents.  
At least beyond the "all children are psychic" theory. (Hey, I dreamed up a scene in the actual show, months before it happened. That doesn't mean that **_**I'm**_** precognitive. Although JS suggested I might be...but I'm sure he was joking.... **_**Mostly**_** sure.)  
The thing with reading the cards in the first test is that he can sense the **_**properties**_** of an object. This ability is comparable to psychometry (also known as token object reading)—except that his ability doesn't involve knowing things about the **_**owner**_** of said object.  
My hand-wave for this one is to say that this is part of the reason that "punchy, kicky" Doyle is as good as he is at the science stuff, such as his chemical combo (episode 8), fixing and improving various machines (microwave field generator in episode 9), and various other scientific stuff he's worked on. (As well as my claim somewhere within my fanfiction that he's got a natural skill for fixing things...such as the Naga relic, episodes 22 and 25—and one or more other ideas I'm playing around with in my fic.)  
Which is to say, this ability is how he understands the properties of what he's dealing with well enough to...deal with it.  
**

**Doyle's sort-of psychometry, combined with the magic I've been playing around with, creates another ability: a skill comparable to micro-telekinesis.  
That remark in an earlier chapter about "wanting to open the door" besides the point, I am **_**not**_** going to have Doyle move objects with his mind (though it's left open, so it won't contradict things if JS came up with it). He **_**can**_**, however, change the **_**properties**_** of objects...like swapping the faces of the cards even though the cards never moved.  
This one in particular is the reason that he's got a knack (within the boundaries of my fan-fic, at least) for healing. **_**General**_** healing, that is, and quick recovery from minor injuries, or "survive long enough for proper treatment" healing, not anything as specialized as recovering from certain **_**types**_** of injuries (as we'll see in a couple of my main fics).  
However, because this one is more of an active ability—as opposed to the "passive" ability to hear and understand thoughts, or to sense an object's properties—it takes a little more out of him. (Which is the **_**other**_** reason he can't use it to recover from major injuries; the drain could kill him as quick as the injury would have.)  
I'll hand-wave that one by saying that his Micro Adhesive gloves (...episode 2 of season 2, right?) are his way of accomplishing **_**one**_** of the things he could've done with Micro-TK...but without the drain on his strength. And that there are probably other examples throughout the series.**

**There, you have one child who has the potential to use a vast number of psychic abilities simply by creative application of only two or three.  
I like pulling that stunt. It's the same one I use to select Gifts in my Valdemar fan-fic...if I **_**had**_** Valdemar fan-fic.  
It doesn't always work, though.**

**Fourth, the carvings, and their "attractive" properties: I have no idea. ****  
They were "originally" a perfectly mundane hobby I came up with in the beginning of the Sierra story (in a scene that might no longer exist in any form, at that).  
Part of my brain just insisted on playing around with them from there, particularly when deciding why Doyle got involved with the Revan household.  
****The carvings could be another product of the magic/TK, but the magic **_**within**_** them?**  
**Maybe I'll just say that it's largely instinctive, combined with general spells that anyone with magic can learn, and leave it at that.**


	28. Pursuit

**I don't own Doyle. I don't own the Secret Saturdays. I don't own the grey demons—I mean Grey Men.  
I own Benton, Fae, the entire Revan household, the Mulo clan, and (technically) the unnamed individuals within the ranks of the grey demons.**

**I meant Grey Men.**

**What?**

* * *

Stray

The lessons continued, but Corbin abandoned the tests in favor of Zander's methods.

Fae and the _chovihano_ came by now and again to check on his progress; Benton, also, looked in on him, when the hunter returned from his rounds. Zander insisted the younger boy was better when there were not so many people about, so they limited their visits to whispered conferences with Corbin and each other.

Zander continued to teach Doyle the soccer game, and praised him every time the younger child scored or blocked Zander from scoring. Doyle, however, was still as timid as ever, and did not succeed in such attempts very often.

They were out there one day in one of the more unusual displays. Viper guarded the net as before, and many of Corbin's other animals sat and watched, and occasionally made their various noises when one child or the other scored a goal.

Anybody who did not know Corbin might think the animals were unusually well-behaved, or in Viper's case, exceptionally well-trained. Anyone who knew Corbin and his animals would know that this was a very unusual game indeed.

But Zander had insisted that Doyle was better off with fewer people, and except for the few times Corbin took pictures to pass along to the Romani Clans, there had never been another human to witness the strangeness of it all.

The game had taken over most of the field, and Zander often found himself chasing after the younger boy.

Doyle drew back and kicked the ball towards the net.

Zander dove after it, missed, and hit the ground rolling.

Viper, for once, tried to stop the ball, and it bounced off behind the two children.

Zander started laughing. "Way...way to go," he said, trying to catch his breath. "That was a good kick. May—maybe with a little work...maybe you'll—you'll get it past—Viper." He panted some more before climbing to his feet, and looked around. "Hey, where'd—where'd the ball go?"

Someone behind them started applauding, and Zander turned to see a couple of strangers; one of them held the ball in his arm.

Both strangers wore grey trench coats.

—

"Get behind me," Zander muttered, and enhanced the warning with a carefully crafted thought.

Doyle moved quickly to obey, though he managed to look merely "shy." Once Zander checked the younger boy's position, he forced a smile onto his face and turned back to the two strangers.

"Can I help you?" he asked.

The one holding the ball walked towards them. "That's a well-trained horse you got there," he said.

The stallion pricked his ears forward and took a few steps closer to the stranger.

"Yeah," Zander replied. "Dad says horses are smart enough to be trained like a dog, only Viper there is smarter than most any dog, ain't you, Viper?" His smile vanished as he watched the man's approach. "Careful, though, he's got a vicious streak in him; he can be real mean when he wants to be, which is—"

Viper lunged at the man, too quickly for anyone that didn't know horses to react, and the man fell backward with a cry. Viper spit at the man, then turned and pranced towards the children while the other man helped his partner to his feet.

The man clutched his arm; a red stain appeared on his sleeve.

"—_most_ of the time," Zander finished.

The two men stared at the now placid stallion. "Your father lets that monster around you kids?" the uninjured one exclaimed.

"Aw, Viper's all right around _us_," Zander replied. The stallion bumped his chest, and the boy saw a jumble of images; it "felt" like Doyle was telling him that Viper wanted to be petted. He reached up and stroked Viper's nose a little. "Makes him better than any guard dog, for sure. The villagers around don't want to let their kids around this 'monster,' but Viper likes me and my brother all right."

"Brother?" the uninjured one repeated. "He doesn't look anything like you."

"And that matters, when?" Zander returned. "We figure he's a throwback; looks like one of our great-grand-daddies...what'd we figure, Roxton? Five, six generations agone?"

"Six, I think," Doyle replied.

"Roxton?" the injured man said with a laugh. "Who names their kid _Roxton_?"

"What, I got to explain it every time he's introduced?" Zander said. "He's Johnny Roxton." He glanced at their blank looks and sighed. "John Roxton? Character in _Lost World_? Arthur Conan Doyle? It was one of our mum's favorite books."

Doyle had to suppress a laugh, in spite of his fear. One of their visitors had suggested that he'd been named after the author...and he remembered that it _was_ his dad's favorite book.

The strangers' expressions were still blank, and Zander managed to look annoyed. "Oh, come on. Doesn't anybody _read_, anymore?"

"Hey, now," one of the servants called out. "You're starting to sound like an old man!"

"I'm starting to _feel_ like an old man," Zander muttered. But he was relieved at the servant's appearance.

"If you _gentlemen_ are here for Mr. Revan, I can take you to him," the servant told the strangers. "If you are not...." He let the thought hang, to let them supply their purpose. His smile was cold, though; his smile said _get out_.

The uninjured one nodded, and they followed the servant inside.

Once they were out of earshot, Zander breathed a sigh of relief. He looked up at the stallion, surprised to realized he was still petting the animal. He jerked his hand away.

"Did—did you tell him to let me do that?" he asked Doyle in a whisper. The stallion gave Zander a look that, from a human, the older child might have thought was mock hurt.

Doyle shook his head. "_His_ idea," he replied. "He says...." Doyle's eyes unfocused a little, and he struggled to put the animal's thoughts into words. He shook with fear. "He says you know that not all snakes hunt just for food."

Zander frowned. "Especially the two-legged kind."

"_Especially_ them," Doyle agreed. "And you and your dad said most two-leggers can't hear them—"

"Viper didn't want them to know?" Zander suggested. Doyle nodded.

—

"Have you any news to report?" the uninjured man asked.

"News?" Corbin repeated. "What news? Why would I have news?"

The first man smiled. "It has been quite some time since you've provided results on Zander, Dr. Revan."

"Zander hasn't _shown_ any results since he first took sick." Corbin gave a mental prayer of thanks for Zander's quick thinking; if they asked how "Johnny" was his son, Corbin had been ready for weeks. He continued, "I haven't tested him in years, not since their mother died, and Johnny's been too young to bother."

"Our intelligence suggests that you have _renewed_ your research—" the injured man replied.

"Games," Corbin snapped. "We've played _games_. No results, no talent, nothing 'special.' No reason to push either of them. They're just _children_; no more, no less." He glowered at the men. "We're _all_ going to have to accept that."

Corbin forced himself not to look at the fireplace, where the changed deck of cards was nearly ash. He'd stopped asking a long time ago how these people knew these things, and could only hope they didn't know about _that_.

After the two men whispered between themselves, for a short time that felt an eternity to Corbin, they thanked him for his time and left.

Only then did Corbin dare to breathe a sigh of relief. He turned to his servant. "Get Benton, get Fae, get...get that _chovihano_ here, if you can."

"What was the problem?" the servant asked. "You've never been scared of them before. And they were only asking about your research...."

Corbin shook his head. "You remember what the _chovihano_ said about grey demons?"

"Wha—you don't think that was _them_, do you? They wouldn't—" The servant frowned. "Would they?"

"Viper's bitten people before, right? Strangers, friends; good people or bad."

"Plenty," the servant agreed. "He even bites Benton; you know that. And funny thing is, the stallion _likes_ him, and still takes a nip out of him."

Corbin started shaking. "You ever known him to bite so hard, he draws blood?"

—

"Benton," Corbin said. "I need a favor; I need you to take Doyle for a while."

"What's the problem?" Fae asked.

Corbin shuddered, but forced himself to tell them exactly what had happened. "I don't—I don't know for sure, but after what the _chovihano_ had said about the grey demons—or that mercenary—" He cleared his throat; he didn't know if anyone had told Benton about the hypnosis session, and there was no longer time to explain. "I don't know, but these people might be part of the reason that Doyle's alone."

"You're hoping they lose the trail," Benton said. It had not been a question, but Corbin nodded. "Got a place in mind?"

"No," Corbin admitted. "Somewhere, anywhere. I don't know. Just so these people don't find him." He sighed in regret. "I'd do it myself, you know that. But Zander isn't well enough to travel yet, and I can't leave _either_ of them on their own."

"How long?" the hunter asked.

"I don't know. Zander isn't that good _yet_, but he's improving. He should be well enough to travel in another couple of months. If they've lost the trail by then—we figure on leaving, once he gets better, anyway. But Doyle needs to go, _now_."

"Corb...." The hunter took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Even _I_ can't wander around for a few months without some idea where I'm going. And if you want to find him, after—"

The _chovihano_ cleared his throat. "That may be part of why _I'm_ here."

Corbin nodded.

"We have managed to find a person who knew Doyle's parents," the _chovihano_ told the hunter. "Thanks to the information the mercenary provided us, we have found some elders who remember Jonathon as a child. More important, who remember _his_ father." One of the servants brought out a map, and the _chovihano_ pointed to a spot in southern France. "We have determined that the grandfather's clan resides in this area."

Benton peered at the map and whistled. "That's quite a distance." He looked at the _chovihano_ and frowned. "What makes you think his grandfather's going to welcome him? There must've been a reason why his own kid took off, right?"

The _chovihano_ shook his head. "Old Blackwell fled our clans with his son because he feared these grey demons, though it is all too likely that he'd never explained that reason to his child. But I believe he will welcome his grandson."

"So how is Benton supposed to find them?" Fae asked. "If life around here is any indication, _I_ certainly wouldn't be too eager to let anyone find me if I were Romani."

The _chovihano_ shook his head. "The attitude towards Romani isn't quite so bad in some places. Caution would still be necessary, but if it were _only_ that, he could simply walk into any town and start asking questions." The _chovihano_ frowned. "There is a...complication, however."

"These...grey demons?" Benton asked.

"Apologies," the _chovihano_ said. "_Two_ complications, then." Everyone looked at him, and he sighed. "There is a spell on the child. A series of protective spells, shielding and restorative spells."

"That's a complication?" Fae asked. She lifted an eyebrow.

"The nature of these spells is the complication," the _chovihano_ replied. "They are...comparable to the spells our tribe uses when we seek to purify tainted lands. What the boy has is an emergency spell, a temporary solution while I look into alternatives. It is _not_ meant to be permanent, but I dare not remove it yet, not without such an alternative."

"And what if it is?" Benton said. "Permanent, I mean?"

The _chovihano_ shook his head. "I have been maintaining the spells regularly since I placed them, but I cannot leave my clan to continue the job. This journey will last a long time; he will _need_ those spells renewed as soon as you arrive. At best, you might find a _chovihano_ that can recognize the spells, and knows a suitable alternative. At worst, the child will need to learn how to maintain those spells on his own. In either case, you will need to find a clan right away; you cannot take the time to _look_ for them."

Corbin stared at the _chovihano_. "You never spoke of this," he said in an accusing tone.

"How do I main—" Benton began.

The _chovihano_ cut him off with a gesture. "Maintaining the spell is a simple matter; one merely needs to _feed_ the spell. But it must be done in a specific manner that would take much training to learn, lest it harm the one feeding it. I do not believe that even Doyle's _instincts_ could accomplish this."

"Harm?" Fae repeated. "Exactly what does it do? What _could_ it do?"

"Such spells would ordinarily take their power from the earth," the _chovihano_ replied. "But you understand this was an emergency spell. I built it on the assumption that the boy would still be here while I worked on a permanent solution. The land around is tainted; if I allowed him to draw upon _that_ energy, it would only continue to taint him even as it tried to purify him. I have been channeling that energy myself, purifying it and then feeding it into the spell. _That_ is the part that requires extensive training," he added.

"And what would it do without proper maintenance?" Corbin hissed.

"I don't actually know," the _chovihano_ replied, his shoulders slumped. "My people do not use such spells extensively; we have always removed them after a job. It might do nothing. The spell may die without that source of power. It may seek another source, perhaps the earth, or perhaps—" He swallowed. "Without a trained _chovihano_ to feed it, the nearest source of power would be the boy himself."

Everyone stared in horror at this statement.

"So how do I _find_ these clans?" Benton asked. "How do I find them _quickly_?"

"That," the _chovihano_ replied, "I can manage. If you can hold off your journey for at least a day, I can give you something that will lead _them_ to _you_."

—

The _chovihano_ approached Benton and Doyle outside of the train station. He held out something wrapped in silk.

Benton took the package and opened it to find a small medallion.

The _chovihano_ showed him how to use the device. "When you reach your destination, you activate the spell. It gives off a tone; it will act as a beacon for any human with a certain amount of sensitivity. It will call the _chovihano_ from any of the clans within a hundred miles to your location. There are some...limitations, however."

"There seem to be a lot of those, lately," Benton growled.

"He must _wear_ it for it to work," the _chovihano_ warned. "It reacts to the presence of life-energy; the energy of the earth will fuel the spell, but the tone sounds only in response to a heartbeat."

"Okay, make him wear it, activate it, and the _chovihano_ will find us," Benton said.

"Yes; with luck, it will be a _chovihano_ from his grandfather's clan. Elsewise they can lead you to the man, if they must. But when you activate the spell, you must be sure, you must _force_ yourself to be aware of where the boy is at all times. The tone has a hypnotic effect.... It is a beacon for those with a certain sensitivity, but it...discourages everyone else from taking notice."

Benton blinked a few times. "So if I'm not careful, I might forget he's near?"

"That he even exists," the _chovihano_ corrected. "It is possible to break, if you are careful enough. But most people will not be aware of him."

Another voice piped up behind the _chovihano_. "And speaking of forgetting when someone is about...." The _chovihano_ smiled and moved to reveal Zander.

"Zander?" Benton said. "What are you doing here? So far from home?"

"I want to talk to Doyle," Zander said. He glared at Benton until the hunter moved aside to let him through.

"Hey, you're not going away for good, you know that, right?" Zander pulled Doyle into a hug. "Me and dad, we got some things to take care of, but when we're done, we'll come find you." He smiled. "I can't promise much for these old men, but I'll come myself, even if I have to walk the whole way. I ain't going to leave my little brother alone."

Doyle frowned and pulled out of Zander's arms. "But I'm not—"

Zander shook his head. "Oh, sure, maybe not by _blood_; but I don't care about that. As far as I'm concerned you _are_ my brother. Just you keep telling yourself that, all right? Every day, every hour, whatever it takes so you believe it." He wrapped his arms around the younger boy again, and whispered in Doyle's ear. "No matter what, you'll _always_ be my little brother."

**

* * *

Section 2:  
Wait.  
Jon. Roxton. Revan.  
J. R. R.  
The initials are a coincidence, I swear!  
I'd just gone with the theory that Doyle was named after Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (and only JS knows for sure), and picked a character from that book that I could use as a quick pseudonym.  
It was either that or the **_**Jungle Book**_**, but that would've meant "Mowgli" or "Nathu," either of which would have been too culture-specific to work.  
**_**Tarzan**_** might have worked, if I knew the name of the ape-man's human parents, or the name of Jane's father, but since I **_**don't**_**....**

**For those who haven't read the book, or for whom it's been too long (like me), Lord John Roxton is supposed to be some kind of adventurer, so that's why I picked **_**him**_**.  
Plus this gives me the first time Doyle has a version of "Jonathon" as an alias. (Even though Zander first introduced him as "Roxton," but, oh, well.) This way, I have a "source" for the alias, even if JS ever actually reveals the names of Doyle and Drew's parents.**

**Section 5:  
So **_**that's**_** where he got that medallion.  
No, seriously.  
I'd originally thought that one up in a much later arc (actually a short story that I'd played around with and only later decided to include in the generic history, but I digress).  
I had exactly two places in the generic where I needed Doyle to wear it as an adult, but I'd never quite figured out where it had come from.**

**Also Section 5:  
Zander remembers his promise.  
Doyle...does not.  
So for later arcs....**


	29. Ships in the Night

**The moment you've **_**all**_** been waiting for....  
**_**Drew**_** appears!  
Okay, fine, so I had **_**one**_** reviewer ask when she was going to show.**

**I did say it was mostly about Doyle, though, didn't I?**

**I don't own Drew. I don't own the Secret Saturdays. I do own the Mulo Clan, the Tibetan Monks, Fae, and Corbin's household.  
Et cetera.**

**And...the Grey Men and Van Rook's involvement aside, this is first instance that shows **_**why**_** I named this story "Ships in the Night."  
I'd originally called it "Sod's Law" (look it up in your Wiktionary), but I think "Ships in the Night," though slightly inaccurate, has a better ring to it.  
What do you think? Agree? Disagree?**

**Timing: a month-ish following the previous chapter. Late fall, maybe early winter.  
**

* * *

Stray

A teenage girl traveled with her protectors through yet another village.

They found it difficult to acquire supplies in the villages; information was impossible.

In one of the villages, they were told to speak to Faizura Tailor, but they arrived at the woman's house in time to see her run off with a letter.

The sight of the woman's backside was probably the friendliest greeting they'd received.

The villagers gave the girl strange looks. It was only the presence of her protectors, Tibetan monks who were granted respect even by those who did not follow their ways, that kept those looks and muttered remarks from turning vicious.

"I doubt he's come this way," one of the monks said to the girl, during one such visit. His voice was tense with anger. "Sounds like these people would have run him off the moment they laid eyes on him."

"How come they're not friendly?" the girl asked.

"Lots of people in these parts don't take kindly to Romani," a stranger replied. "You want anything useful from the _gadje_, you want to leave the girl behind."

The two monks turned to face the stranger. "She is under our protection, sir," the younger monk said. "We cannot simply—"

The stranger shrugged. He looked very tired. "I see that. And I'm telling you, children have been disappearing from the clans in the past few years. Our own warriors can't even protect them anymore, and you people are not warriors."

The younger monk scowled. "We are _capable_ of taking care of ourselves—"

"I don't doubt that," the stranger interrupted. "But a warrior can take care of himself and his own even while he takes care of the enemy. Your people are _not_ warriors."

"You have a suggestion?" the girl said.

"Come with me," the stranger replied. "Stay with my clan for a few days, let some of our warriors lead these fellows around."

The older monk started to protest, and the stranger cut him off with a wave.

"People around here don't much like Romani, but there's some as will talk. My clan can tell you who to trust, or at least who won't act on their dislike."

"Then I thank, you, sir," the girl replied, before either monk could speak. "We accept your offer."

—

"All right, you mutts, we've got ourselves some new guests," the man called out.

Several men and women came out of hiding. A few relaxed their grip on their weapons, though none disarmed themselves.

The two monks spoke to each other in low tones; they were not pleased with this greeting.

The man overheard their remarks. "I _did_ say that our children have been disappearing," he said. "You cannot fault us for being ready to fight, can you?"

"No, I suppose not," the younger one muttered.

The man nodded. He turned back to the warriors. "This _chej_ is—" He glanced down at the girl. "Sorry, I never did hear your name."

She smiled. "Drew Blackwell."

He nodded. "The young lady is Drew Blackwell, and these _chavo_ are—hold it, _Blackwell_?" He stared at her in shock.

A stir went among the warriors. They repeated the name among themselves, around and around until it seemed the very wind spoke.

"What—what's the matter?" Drew asked, looking at the warriors. "I'm sorry, I don't—I don't know your dialect. I don't understand...." The monks also stared, uncertain if they should worry about this behavior.

One of the warriors came forward and spoke in whispers with the man who had led Drew there.

The man nodded and the warrior ran off down the path.

The man who had led Drew and the monks gestured for them to follow, and he continued down the path at a slower pace.

—

"What is your purpose?" their original guide, who was the clan's Rom Baro, asked Drew. "Why do you travel in these parts?" He glanced at the two monks, then back at Drew, before adding, "Alone?"

"She's not alone," the younger monk protested. "We—"

"I _am_ alone," Drew interrupted. "He wants to know why I'm not with my clan." She turned her gaze to the Rom Baro. "My family has traveled a lot outside my father's clan. We might still have other family, but the only clan I know is my parents and my brother."

She blinked back tears. "A few years ago, we traveled again, just the four of us. We were in the Himalayas, and a storm hit. I—the storm blew me away, and these people, these monks found me and took care of me. Some of them found the camp, and they told me—they told me—" She shivered. The older monk pulled her close and let her cry into his shoulder.

"Her parents died in that storm," the younger monk continued. "We never did find her brother. She has wanted to look for him in all that time, but she has only just recovered from her own ordeal." He smiled, though even his eyes glistened with tears. "She has...she has held on to the hope that he has survived, perhaps made it down the mountain. We have been searching in the hope that someone might have seen him."

The warrior who'd run off before set a small box in front of them. Inside the box were pictures Corbin had given them.

Drew wiped her eyes and glanced at the box. Then she gasped, and dumped it out and dug through the pictures. "_Doyle_!" She looked up at the clan Elders. "You _have_ seen him!" Their expressions remained grim, and her smile faded. "You—you _do_ know where he is...don't you?"

The Rom Baro beckoned the warrior forward, and they spoke in their other dialect. The warrior nodded, and the Rom Baro returned his attention to the visitors.

"My nephew," the Rom Baro said, indicating the warrior, "tells me that this boy has been fostered by a man in one of the villages. He will take one of your monks to speak with this man. You, _chej_, must remain here while they are gone."

"Why can't I go with them?" Drew asked.

"The villages about are not especially friendly to Romani," the Rom Baro reminded her.

"So what?" she countered. "You'll either have to let me go to my brother, or bring him to me. If you're worried about children disappearing, wouldn't it make more sense for me to go?"

"There have been _other_ problems, of late," the warrior replied. "The disappearances are serious, yes, but your brother has not had the best of luck in dealing with the _gadje_. You may accompany us once Corbin understands your mission, but until then, it would be best if I do not bring too many strangers."

"I'm not a _stranger_," Drew protested, "I'm his _sister_!"

"You are a stranger to Corbin," the warrior replied.

—

While the warrior and the younger monk were gone, Drew spent her time watching the other warriors at their training. When one of them saw her interest, she was invited to join, and they remarked at how quickly she learned.

When their _chovihano_ returned from dealing with another clan and learned of her identity, he demanded that the Rom Baro allow him to speak with her. She was interested in speaking to him, and disappointed that he only wanted to know what she remembered of the storm. When she insisted that she'd been blown away by the storm, he asked if he could set a trance on her to confirm her memories.

She agreed.

What he learned seemed to trouble him, but he did not tell her why; he merely sent her along back to the warriors.

"She does not know what happened," the _chovihano_ said, watching the girl spar with the warriors.

The wise woman hid a smile; though old, she was silent as a cat, yet the _chovihano_ still sensed her approach. "What does she know of it?"

The _chovihano_ shrugged. "She was swept away in the winds, the monks found her, tended to her injuries, and came to her with the news."

"And they?" the wise woman asked.

"The monks know nothing of it," he replied. "They know her parents died in the storm; they suspect the creature, that they call a Yeti, but the monks believe that if her parents had survived the Yeti, it was to simply freeze to death in the storm."

"Technically true," the wise woman muttered.

The _chovihano_ nodded. "But a lie for all the help it gives. If there is evidence to the truth of their deaths, these two do not know it."

"Will you tell the girl?"

"No," the _chovihano_ replied. "Simply knowing her parents are dead is hard enough for her, yet she forces herself to cope, so that she may look for her brother. I do not wish to deceive her, but I will not add another trauma to that."

"You may need to," another woman said.

The _chovihano_ turned to see Fae approaching, with the warrior and the younger monk trailing behind.

—

"Is that the girl?" Fae asked, pointing to Drew in the middle of the warriors.

The older monk came up at their approach. He spoke to the younger monk, but the younger merely shook his head.

"Drew!" the younger monk called out.

Drew extracted herself from the warriors and came running. She slowed her steps only when she caught their downcast expressions. "What happened?"

"Corbin was not there," the warrior explained, "but this woman, Fae, was at his home."

Fae sat down on the ground and gestured for Drew to do the same. "Over a month ago, Corbin had reason to believe that Doyle was...in danger. There were people watching him, people that he felt might mean the boy harm. _More_ than this prejudice against Romani," she added upon seeing the clan's expressions. "These grey demons, perhaps."

"Grey demons?" Drew repeated.

"The clan believes they are responsible for some of the disappearances," the _chovihano_ said, "though as we've learned, not all."

Fae nodded. "Thanks to the clan, Corbin had learned that Doyle—that you—had family, a clan in France, as I recall—"

"My grandfather!" Drew said.

"Yes," Fae replied. "Corbin arranged for his closest friend to take the boy there, in the hopes that these grey demons would lose the trail."

Drew looked around in confusion. "What's the problem, then? So all I've got to do is go to France—"

The younger monk shook his head. "It is not that simple."

"I received a letter just a week ago," Fae replied. "About their trip. It—once I'd seen it, I had to show Corbin immediately."

"That's why you ran off?" Drew asked. Fae blinked in surprise, and Drew tried to explain, "In one of the villages, they told us to talk to Faizura Tailor, only when we got to your house, we saw you running off."

"Off to Corbin's place," Fae agreed. "And I think I need to show you that letter, as well."

Fae pulled around a pack from her back, and pulled an envelope out of the pack and handed it to Drew.

Drew opened the envelope and skimmed through it easily. Her parents had taught them many languages; the monks had taught her many more.

She tripped over a few words—not that she had trouble understanding, but that she couldn't believe them. She read through the letter, and the newspaper clipping, four more times before handing them back. "The...the train....de—" She swallowed. "Derailed?"

"Left the track," Fae replied, "just inside of France."

"How—" The _chovihano_ stared. This was the first he'd heard of it. "How many?"

"Doyle is among the few who are not accounted for—_yet_," Fae said. "But not one person was found alive. Not the crew, not the passengers.... Not Benton," she added in a whisper. "Not one."

Drew stared at the ground for several minutes. The older monk tried to speak to her, but she waved him off.

Finally she looked up. "He's alive."

"Drew, you saw what kind of damage—" the younger monk began.

"_No_," Drew snapped. "My brother is alive. They haven't found him _dead_, so he's alive."

Fae smiled. "You sound like Zander."

"Zander?" Drew asked.

"Corbin's son. After deciding that the boy was in danger, they'd planned on coming along after, soon as they were able. When I showed them the letter, they decided to leave sooner yet." Fae smiled. "Zander believes he'd know it the instant if something worse happened to Doyle. And I believe _him_."

"So I'll go with them—" Drew began.

"No," Fae said. "They have already left. Your monks missed them by only a day."

**

* * *

Thus ends the "Stray" arc.  
Woo-hoo! I finished the arc **_**before**_** chapter 30!  
Wait. Am I supposed to be happy about that? I don't know....**

**Though for some reason, I expected **_**this**_** chapter to be a lot shorter.  
*shrug***

**Next we get to see what became of Doyle after the train wreck, as well as the final (generic) "animals behave strangely" secret—and the first point where details may split according to the "main" storyline.  
We also see one of the dangers Drew faces while trying to find her brother, and how Van Rook gets involved....  
And we see what else goes wrong with Anzu's plans, leaving numerous characters wishing that their timing was a little bit better.**

**Speaking of timing:  
I'd originally thought to have Drew show up the day after Benton and Doyle left. I figured that might work with the whole "Sod's Law/Ships in the Night" theme.  
Then I got thinking, this arc takes place in the mid-80's, they're traveling by train, there was the distance they have to travel (never mind that I **_**still**_** don't know where he was; it's quite a distance from France, as far as I'm concerned), then the news would have to travel **_**back**_** the same distance before Drew showed up....  
Not exactly realistic. A **_**month**_** was pushing it as it is.  
So I worked out some other reasons for the "SL/SN" notion of the timing....**


	30. Discussion

**T'ain't much of a chapter, I know, but deciding where to place it had been a bit...tricky. It **_**had**_** to go before the beginning of the "Corrections" arc, but I couldn't quite decide if it belonged before or after "The Hunted."  
I hope I made the right choice.**

**Okay, standard disclaimers of ownership: I own...um...  
Wait. Do I even name any characters in this one?  
I know who **_**I**_** want the speakers to be, but I mean to leave the identities open, with the intent that it won't set any future arcs in stone. Mostly to allow for alternate timelines that share histories, but also to cheat my way around any "out-of-character" nonsense.  
Either way, naming names would kind of restrict that.**

**Which brings me to the other tricky part of this chapter: Getting the scene the way I want it, without it being **_**obvious**_** who the speakers are. Or without giving readers an impression that **_**won't**_** work within any of my universes.**

**Or without turning it into a "Mr. Exposition" chapter.  
*sigh*  
If I'd done this chapter **_**properly**_**, I would actually have sprinkled some of the details throughout the entire story, or at least a few relevant arcs, instead of an info-dump in a single chapter.  
But if I'd done that, I might have forced myself to commit to a given set of characters (and in the case of one of my original ideas, a given set of traits), rather than leaving it open for my alternate timelines.**

**Well, you know the drill, so let's get on with the story.**

* * *

Intermission

"I thank you for the...courtesy to grant me this audience," the visitor said.

The host merely snorted in derision.

"Truly," the visitor insisted. "You have every reason to hate me. I would not blame you if you threw me out."

"Just get on with it," the host said. "Tell me why you wanted to speak with me, so I _can_ throw you out."

"Our two peoples have a shared past," the visitor began. "I've looked over my history. Our goals were once the same as yours. Our job _is_ the same, even now—"

"_Ha!_" the host interrupted. "Your job is nothing like mine. We may have a similar focus, but our goals were never the same."

The visitor did not speak until the host signaled to continue. "Your job, I believe, is to protect the boy, yes? To shield those with such power, especially from those who do not understand it, a world that fears those who are different. Your give such as the boy the means to fulfill their potential, to serve their purpose."

The host hesitated, then nodded. "You know much about my people."

"Not enough," the visitor admitted. "_My_ job, on the other hand, is to watch those with such power, to restrain them, if need be, to ensure that such power is not unleashed, uncontrolled, against a world that is not ready for them. Surely you understand the damage such power can have."

The host nodded again.

"And given that damage, and how it would affect _your_ job," the visitor continued, "is there any reason why our two goals must be exclusive? Why can we not pursue them together?"

"Because _my_ job," the host snarled, "is to protect and teach such people. I try to ensure that my quarry will survive long enough to learn control. You...not so much."

"We do have options that you do not," the visitor agreed, "but there are others. And for any option to be effective, we require a thorough understanding of these powers. It is in pursuit of that understanding that we are lately taught to do as we have done. The job is the same; it is the methods that have changed."

The host thought this over, then finally nodded. It made sense. It did not mean the visitor was truthful, but it did make sense. "And what do you want from me?"

"Nothing," the visitor replied, "for the moment. I may trade information at a later time; simply knowing that I have that option must suffice for now. I must learn who else I can speak to, who I can trust. Many are set in the ways I've been taught, and I dare not reveal myself to them."

"The rot runs deep," the host said.

"And this rot cannot simply be cut out," the visitor added. "Not until I know _how_ deep. Until then, neither my associates nor yours can afford to know that we have spoken."

"Agreed," the host said. "So long as you give me no cause to doubt you. And the boy?"

"I will do what I can," the visitor said, and sighed. "I will try to limit the damage they will cause. But I dare not give them cause to doubt me. Anything I do, I must give _them_ a reason for it, so that the rot does not cut me out."

"Since you must hide among the rot," the host said, "see to it that the rot does not _infect_ you."

The visitor sighed. "I will certainly try."


	31. Accident

**Clearly, my section breaks do not always serve their original purpose.  
Hmm, I need to work on that.**

**I don't own Doyle. I don't own the Secret Saturdays. I don't own...the quick cameo in the first section (who is only there because of another pre-avalanche back-story that I might play around with...though the canon-accuracy of that cameo depends on how much time passed between Argost's flashbacks in War of the Cryptids).  
I do own the idiot trophy hunter—who is actually quite intelligent; (adult) Doyle thinks of him as an idiot (as do most characters who encounter him later, but I digress), except when he thinks of him with fear.  
*ahem*  
I own the idiot trophy hunter, his flunkies, and the horses and dogs.**

**Episodic, remember? I might (eventually) provide an explanation for whoever's interested, if only because **_**I**_** think Doyle's starting to look like a Gary Stu, or something.  
I'd like to get the entire nature of that explanation without it taking up a page or more, but I think the gist of it is this:  
I have attempted to maintain a degree of continuity, avoid conflicts in timing (certain conflicts are dealt with in the "histories" dealing with the specific other stories), and retain specific elements from one arc to the next.  
However, this generic history is not intended to be thought of as a single story in which everything happened, but rather a collection of stories, a collection of "flashbacks" which **_**might**_** apply to a given story or other. (It may help if you think of my other stories as alternate universes of each other. Or not. Your call.)  
Whether it is read that way depends both on my ability to write it that way, and on how the reader chooses to read it. But there's my hand-wave, if readers should decide that Doyle's been suffering too much for one story.**

**The nature of the longer explanation consisted of naming examples, and factors that determine which stories the events of this arc **_**must**_** have taken place in, followed by the reminder that readers can choose to assume that it did not happen in any other story, if that is their desire.  
And the reminder that **_**all**_** arcs within the generic history follow that same principle...or should, if I successfully wrote them that way.  
And so on.**

**Whew! And that was the **_**short**_** version....**

**Fernanda (and anyone else): The whole point of chapter 29 (Drew's first appearance) was for her to find out where Doyle was...but **_**just**_** miss him. (Or just miss Corb and Zander, in this case....) As are a few other chapters, but we'll deal with that later. She **_**will**_** appear in future chapters, with a bigger (translate: **_**real**_**) role in the story, beyond the "oh I just missed him" theme, and probably with some action scenes—just not with this clan.  
This "history" is really just a collection of potential flashbacks for other stories...and thus far, only stories told from **_**Doyle's**_** perspective, or else that ultimately influence Doyle's part in the story. So there's not really a lot for me to say just yet about Drew.  
I may eventually write a Drew story; I may not. If I did, it would mean repeating a few chapters, and rewording a few others, in addition to any Drew-centric new material. I figure it can be done, but I'd like to focus on Doyle's side of things for the moment. I've read one Drew history that I like (I believe when that one was posted, there were **_**no**_** Doyle stories), and I don't plan just yet on trying to compete with it. Not until I've gotten this one out of my system, at least.  
But this one was meant to be **_**mostly**_** about Doyle, and though other perspectives will show up throughout, I would like to keep it **_**mostly**_** about Doyle. I want to limit those other perspectives to those somehow related to what Doyle **_**is**_** going through, **_**has**_** gone through, or **_**will**_** go through. Whether I succeed....**

**So what do my readers think? **_**Should**_** I try a Drew story? Or at least a more in-depth look at her perspective of **_**this**_** story?**

**Timing: A few months following the previous chapter. Probably spring time, if only to keep too much time from having passed since the previous chapter.  
Say, four calendar years following the Avalanche arc (only because Stray began late in year two and bled into year three).  
**

* * *

The Hunted

Doyle rushed to keep up with the wagon. The men had grumbled constantly about how he slowed them down, but not one would let him sit on a horse or in the wagon. The first time he'd suggested it, their boss had struck him with a horsewhip.

He kept quiet after that, and tried not to give them a reason to grumble.

This had been a strange job, and it was not the first time Doyle wondered if he shouldn't have accepted it.

He'd been watching a small pack of wolves chase down a deer when it happened. Doyle was not big enough to catch such an animal himself, and the pack had not asked him to join. He'd planned to pick over what they left; he'd hoped he might even see how they brought it down.

But they'd chased the animal into a clearing and found themselves running through a herd of horses.

This pack had no experience with livestock, and did not recognize the scent of man, or know what the presence of these animals meant. They had only known that the horses smelled like a different sort of prey, and that this prey could not run.

Doyle knew exactly what it meant, and he abandoned the hunt, yelling and flailing his arms at the wolves. He knew what it meant that the horses were tied down, and heard the humans, shouting in reply to the horses' battle cries. He did not want the wolves about when the humans returned.

The wolves scattered at his strange behavior, and he worked quickly to calm the herd before they could draw in other predators.

The hunters arrived while he worked his way among the herd.

One man approached and, after finding a language that both understood, asked if Doyle wanted a job tending to the animals. He offered food and shelter, and after a few moments' thought, Doyle agreed.

After a few days, Doyle began to doubt that decision.

These hunters were not like Benton. Benton caught and killed prey animals for their meat.

These hunters skinned the animals and left the meat behind. They left an easy meal for scavengers, but those scavengers could feed after any predator. Why did these people hunt?

Benton provided that meat to those who needed it, those who could not always buy or catch their own meals.

These hunters sold the fur or feathers to people who had money, people who did not _want_ to hunt for themselves.

Sometimes, these hunters trapped strange animals; they sold these animals, live, to people often stranger than the prey.

The latest one, a half-scorpion, had looked shocked to see Doyle. He'd seemed to recognize the child, though Doyle was certain he'd never seen _this_ man before.

But the scorpion-man had said nothing about it in Doyle's hearing; he had merely spoken with the hunters in private, and they had shared a laugh about something.

The scorpion-man had watched with a strange smile, as the hunters had taken Doyle and left to find new prey.

—

The boss finished the new list and handed it to one of his employees.

The underling quickly glanced over the list out of habit.

Then he looked at it again. He whistled. "Uh, boss? These are some pretty powerful sedatives. You thinking we'll need them for the creature?"

The boss shook his head. "Given the sort of monster we're chasing, I'm thinking we'll need them for our _own_ men."

The other man nodded in the direction of the town. "People are going to wonder."

The boss scowled. "Then you'd best better keep them from wondering."

"So, exactly how much _can_ I tell them?" the other man asked, and the boss's scowl deepened. "I know. I know the drill, don't let on to what we're doing. I was just thinking, these people are terrified of this monster. If I tell them we're getting rid of it, that might shut them up." He shrugged. "Best case scenario, anyhow."

"And worst case?" the boss asked.

"The optimistic ones—or rather, naïve—might pray we regain our sanity before it's too late," the other man said with a laugh. "Most of them would just pray for our souls."

"You do that, then." The boss shared the laugh. "Make sure you tell me how many of them are praying, all right?"

The other man nodded, mounted up on one of the horses, and rode off to the town.

Once he was out of earshot, the boss gestured to his other people, signaling them to get into position.

Within the hour, the wagon and the rest of the herd came into view, with that child struggling to keep up.

—

The wagon rolled to a stop, and Doyle had to brace himself against it as he fought to catch his breath.

He did not drop to the ground, no matter how badly he wanted to. He did not know if it was wise to work with these men, but he did not want _them_ to decide to chase him away; he needed them to think he was useful.

He forced himself to push away from the wagon. The men had come up to unload the supplies, and he had to help before he could get to his other work.

Doyle gave a puzzled look at the horses; he'd always thought it seemed wrong, somehow, to leave them in their gear. The men had already whipped him once for asking questions, though, and he did not ask again.

The hunters were constantly on the move, and he'd finally reasoned that they could not afford the time to unhitch the animals every time only to hitch them up again so soon after. But that didn't answer other concerns, like waiting to _feed_ the animals....

They took everything out, food, tents, even the skins. When the wagon was completely empty, Doyle dug through the supplies to find the things for the animals, and got to work on his next job. He poured out the rations for the dogs, filled bags of feed for the horses. The men had left them in reach of a stream, so that was one task he didn't need to worry about.

He was hunting for the brushes when the boss approached him.

"Got another job for you," the boss said. "Interested?"

Doyle suppressed his annoyance at this statement. What he was doing was important—the animals seemed to think so, at least—but whatever the boss wanted him to do now, he'd _have_ to do before he could get back to the animals.

"Yes, sir," he said.

"Why don't you unhitch that mare," the boss said, nodding towards the wagon, "and take her for a bit of a walk, huh? Poor thing's been attached to that wagon for eons."

_Maybe if you let me unhitch her every time we camp—_ Doyle thought. Only sheer willpower kept him from saying it, or of reminding the man of Doyle's current task. Instead, he replied, "Walk, sir?" through gritted teeth. He merely waited for the man to elaborate; he did not want the boss to think he was questioning orders.

"Yeah, don't worry about the grooming," the boss said. "Rest of us can take care of that. But none of us can take that horse out much; she's small, not used to riders, and any of us would be too big for her. But a little bitty thing like you—" He shrugged. "I figure you both need the cool-down, anyhow."

Doyle's eyes snapped open, and he stared at the boss. "R—riders?" He'd ridden Viper a few times, but only for a few minutes. That was _nothing_ compared to what he'd seen these men doing. "You don't mean—"

The boss laughed at the longing in Doyle's eyes. For just an instant, uncertainty flickered into his own expression. But the look passed before Doyle noticed, and the boss laughed again. "Sure, why not? You been watching us long enough; you can manage this one, can't you?"

"Yes, _sir_!"

Rather than take a chance at putting the other gear on wrong—or at the boss changing his mind if Doyle tried to ask—he sent a quick thought to the mare, and she readily agreed. _She_ wanted to be free of the thing behind her as much as he wanted to free her from it, and she was willing to carry him bareback to do it.

Doyle examined the harness to make sure he knew how to remove it. He found and loosened the fastenings...then encountered a real puzzle. The men were large enough to simply pull the harness up once it was undone. _He_, however, was neither tall enough nor strong enough to do so. He could not simply have the mare step out of the harness, either; part of it looped over her neck.

He finally tried to work his way in _under_ the harness, and lift it from beneath. He sent a thought to the mare, to show her what he wanted to do. He had no fear of trouble from this mare. These horses were used to the creatures the hunters caught; not one of them spooked easily, and the mare was the sturdiest of the lot.

For one moment, his arm was trapped between the mare's side and the weight of the harness....

He "felt" something sting the mare's flanks....

And the mare screamed, reared, and bolted.

Doyle had no time to react. Could not react. Did not understand what had happened.

The harness slipped. Doyle was amid a forest of pounding hooves.

He struggled to pull free. To evade the hooves. To speak to the mare. To calm the mare. To stop her panicked race.

The harness came free. Doyle fell to the ground. He rolled to a stop.

In time to see the wagon

Come

Right

At

Him

**

* * *

Must...resist...urge...to...explain...ideas!**

**Must...have...faith...in...story!**

**Self-deprecating humor aside, does it sometimes maybe look like I feel the need to explain myself more than I should?**

**I mean, I try not to write over-involved author notes, but I'm starting to wonder if I should worry about more than **_**length**_** when those things sneak their way in.**

**Or am I imagining things again?**

**Anywho, whether it's for author notes or the actual story: as always, constructive criticism is welcome.  
As much as I love the ego boost that the short and sweet "please update" provides, what I really **_**need**_** is an analytical reader.  
Preferably one that isn't my mother. She's great when reading my original fics, but I cannot seem to get her to understand that fanfiction can be a useful **_**and legitimate**_** tool for developing said originals.**

**So....  
Volunteers?  
Reviews of the analytical kind?  
Anything?  
**_**Please**_**?**


	32. Predator

**I don't own Doyle. I don't own the Secret Saturdays.  
Once again, I own the idiot trophy hunter, his flunkies, and the animals.**

**I blame (er, I mean credit) CJzilla for the idea I stole (I mean, that **_**inspired**_** me) for this arc.  
(Wow. I've really got to watch those Freudian slips.)  
However, whether for good or ill, the creature that appears is the only **_**intended**_** similarity to that story.**

**And speaking of that similarity, a quick warning:  
This chapter represents the final "animals behaving strangely" secret within the generic. (Other details may develop according to the nature of each fic.)  
But because of the **_**nature**_** of that particular secret...towards the end, this chapter might get a little...um.... Well, **_**messy**_** isn't the right word, simply because there isn't much **_**mess**_** to deal with, but some readers might not want to know what happens.  
To put it into perspective, I am mostly sure that...certain...parts of the third section could give _me_ nightmares.  
And if I worked my "retcon" in properly, some of the next few chapters will have a similar...situation.**

* * *

The Hunted

Doyle's world alternated between pain, dulled only by the haze that surrounded everything, and absolute nothingness.

When he was in the fog, he heard voices around him. He wanted only to ignore them, to sleep, to escape the pain.

But when there was nothing, he was afraid. He wanted to wake up, to know what was happening, to know if there was danger.

He did not know how much time passed this way.

He felt a sharp jab in his chest, quick, then it was gone.

He opened his eyes and saw only blackness.

He felt it again. He tried to move, to fend off whatever touched him.

He could not move.

The jab came, harder this time, and he cried out.

He heard nothing.

The feeling went away, and he began to believe he was still unconscious.

Before he could drift off, the jab came again, jolting him into full wakefulness.

Feeling gradually returned to his body.

Something pressed against his ankles and wrists, keeping his arms and legs immobile behind him. The blackness before his eyes stretched from his forehead to his cheeks. And when he tried to open his mouth, he could taste the rag wedged between his jaws.

He fought the bindings, stretched his fingers to feel a long metal object thrust through the cord. He cried out again, in pain and fear; he heard his voice, muffled, through the gag.

"Ah, finally, you're awake," the boss said. "Took long enough. I was starting to think you'd be dead weight, after all."

Doyle jerked his head in the direction of the voice. His breath came short; he had to force himself to remain calm, to _listen_ to what was happening.

He had been silent for a long while, and the hunter struck him again. It was not a quick jab in the chest, nor even the lash of the horsewhip. The hunter had struck him in the ribs with something long and hard.

Doyle screamed through the gag.

"Yes," the hunter hissed. "Yes, _do_ that. Keep making that noise. You'll never be useful for anything else, not after you let that mare cripple you. _Keep screaming_!"

Doyle struggled against the bindings, struggled to get away from the source of this pain.

He went silent again, and the hunter struck him again. The hunter yelled at him to keep screaming, and struck again and again, every time he went silent.

This continued, until a different sound, the roar of a large animal, was heard in the distance.

"Perfect," the hunter said. "No sense being quiet now. Now it knows that it's dinner is here."

The hunter's footsteps moved away.

Doyle screamed and cried, and tried to get free.

He scraped against the ground many times in his thrashing. The blindfold started to come loose, and slipped off of one eye, when Doyle felt heavier footsteps approach him. Hot breath panted, so close to his ear.

He turned his face towards the sound.

And stared into the largest set of fangs he'd ever seen.

—

The hunters crouched behind a rise and watched the beast approach the child.

One hunter, the one who'd been sent earlier for supplies, shook his head at the sight. "I can't believe I agreed to this," he muttered.

The boss smirked at him. "Oh, come now, this one's a good job, and you know it." He shrugged, and nodded in the direction of the creature. "Pity all the supplies we had to waste on that kid, but the client's paying big time to bag this monster. Enough for a hefty profit for all of us."

The other one glared at him. "I _know_ that, but...."

"You ain't backing out, now, are you?" the boss asked, too calmly.

"No," the one hunter said. "I just think there's too many things that can go wrong, is all. I mean, you can't _really_ be thinking of taking a shot at that thing right now, can you? With the kid out there? What if you miss?" The boss gave him an odd look. "I'm not questioning anybody's aim, but all it takes is one stray dart."

"_Course_ I ain't going to shoot now," the boss said, returning his attention back to the creature. "If we miss, that monster would just get scared back into the trees. _Far_ more expedient to wait until it's busy with its meal."

_Busy...with its meal...?_ The one hunter stared in shock. None of the others seemed bothered by the boss's choice of words. "No," he heard himself say. "_No_. I did _not_ sign up to murder _children_!"

He pushed to his feet, but three of the others tackled him and pinned him, face-down in the dirt. He struggled against their grip, until he felt something cold and hard push under his chin. He looked up, saw that the thing touching his neck was the end of the boss's gun, and broke out in a cold sweat.

"You interfere," the boss warned, "and I'll throw you out there for the main course."

"Hey, boss?" the man on lookout called. "We, uh, we got a problem."

"What kind of problem?"

The lookout pointed to where the beast had been investigating the child.

The child was still there; the beast had disappeared.

The boss swore under his breath, and kicked at the man still on the ground. With the three holding him, the man could only just evade the kick.

The boss gestured to another of the group. "Look for it; check for the tracks. It can't have gotten far."

The indicated hunter nodded and sprang over their sparse cover.

And screamed.

The sound was cut short by a wet, tearing sound, and the beast leaped over the rise to face the hunters, its fangs dripping with blood and fresh meat.

The hunters scrambled to face the creature, and the one who'd spoken out slipped away from them in the confusion.

He raced towards the spot where the child lay. _Maybe he can get away,_ he prayed. _Or I can drag him off if the leg's too bad, or if he's too doped up...._ He shook his head, and his lips twisted into a snarl. _"For our men," my ass. Then that "accident" with the mare! How long has that monster been _planning_ this?_

The hunter reached the child and set a knife to the cords.

But the child was in such a state of terror, that he did not realize the hunter was helping him. He was incapable of forming a single _human_ thought, and when the hunter touched him, he lashed out with the only weapon he had.

Spirit fangs turned solid and tore through the hunter; a gurgled shriek escaped from the man's lips.

—

The sudden surge of power took its toll on the pup. Though this form was spirit, it had a physical existence, and physical needs. This body was ravenous. The need to feed was as powerful, as overwhelming, as the need to defend himself.

And two-leggers were such easy prey.

He sniffed at the unconscious body of the child—_my self, other self_—and dismissed it as _not prey_.

He examined the two-legger whose blood dripped from his fangs. That two-legger opened his eyes and stared at the pup, and began to scream.

The pup ignored the prey-sounds and proceeded to rip the two-legger open. The sound did not end until the pup tore out the two-legger's beating heart.

The older beast finished decimating the hunters and settled to watch. She sensed something strange about this new pup. Something to do with that young two-legger. A moment ago, when the she had first investigated the little one, it had the feel of this pup, for all that it smelled of a two-legger.

_Now_, it was all two-legger.

The female rose to her feet and sniffed at the little two-legger. She opened her jaws....

And the pup rushed the female, knocking her off her feet.

_Not prey!_ the pup said, standing over the body of the little two-legger.

The female cocked her head at this behavior. _It is two-legger,_ she said.

The pup snarled. _No! It is my self, other self. It is not prey!_ But the pup shook with fear. Some elders could only just tolerate the strange ways of the young. This one would have _no_ patience for a pup that tried to protect what _should_ be prey. But how could he explain to the female, when the pup didn't understand it, himself? _It is...part of me, myself. I cannot let it be prey!_

_Your self?_ the female replied with a laugh. _True, you stink of the two-leggers. But that little one is no part of you. You are _all_ pup, and _that_ is all two-legger._ The pup stood his ground, and the female growled. _Two-leggers are _always_ prey._

The female lunged, grabbed the pup by the scruff of his neck, and flung him down the hill. The pup struggle to his feet, only to drop to the ground again. The pup's ears rang from the blow, and he stared in horror as the older one turned back to the little two-legger.

The pup forced himself back onto his feet, and sprang for the older one—

"_STOP!_"

The two beasts backed away from each other. The female watched the new two-legger warily, and the hawk that guarded _him_. The pup's confusion was one thing, but now a _spirit_ protected the prey? Or one of the gods? A god of another land, at that; the hawk could not protect the child unless the local gods allowed it.

The pup watched the spirit with curiosity. He had only enough human memory to recognize the figure, but was animal enough that Anzu's earlier trick did not..._quite_...affect him.

_Dad?_

"Thank the g...thank goodness, you _remember_ me," Jonathon said in a sob. He crouched to face the pup. "Yes, Doyle. It's me. It's Dad."

Doyle looked at his human body, then at the female beast, then back at his father. _What's—what's going on?_

"I'll explain later," Jonathon replied. "Right now, you need to return to proper form."

Doyle looked at his human body, then at the female beast, then back to his father. _I can't. She—she thinks it—I'm—prey._ His "voice" sharpened with fear. _If I return to that—_

Jonathon shook his head. "Because you've _separated_ yourself. I don't think she can sense _you_ within your human shape. She'll understand once you're back to normal." The female snarled and stared behind them; Jonathon followed her gaze. "Doyle, _please_, you don't have much time. Someone heard that fight; something comes to chase her away. If you're still here, like this—Doyle, if you don't return _now_, you might not be able to."

Doyle did not understand his father's fear, but some instinct warned him that it was never wise to remain outside his body for long. But there was another problem. That same instinct had always sent him back into his own body; he had never done it of his own will.

_I don't know how,_ he muttered. _I don't know how I did this. I don't know how to fix it._

The hawk screeched. Jonathon listened to its call, then nodded and called up his own memories of the talent. Within moments, the pup disappeared, and Doyle opened his human eyes.

He did not see his father, or the hawk. He saw only hooves drumming the ground and surrounding him as the animals attached to them chased the beast away.

Then darkness took him.

**

* * *

The price that such a use of power had (besides the overwhelming instincts and the whole "sometimes forgets he's human" issue) is similar to that faced by Anyanwu when she changes shape too quickly in Octavia Butler's "Wild Seed."  
**_**Very**_** similar. In fact, other than the "spirit vs. physical change" issue, that particular problem is **_**exactly**_** what I had in mind. At least from the perspective of the observer.  
From Doyle's perspective, there will naturally be some modifications to it. Like other characters' exploration of the problem showing it to be a metabolism issue rather than a simple "need to feed." (In spite of the fact that he's a spirit in this form.)  
Although I am working on a more involved explanation....  
**

**There you have the final "animals behaving strangely" detail for the generic.  
At least from Doyle's side of things.  
There may be other details Doyle encounters in other stories; there **_**will**_** be other ways in which animals behave strangely for other (original) characters.**


	33. Retcon

**I don't own Doyle, his parents, or the Secret Saturdays.  
Or Doyle or his parents, for that matter.  
I own Anzu and the farmer.**

**Is it possible to retcon fanfiction? Because I think that's what this chapter's doing....  
I've been calling this one a retcon, simply because it redoes that whole "illusion" trick that Anzu had pulled on Doyle a few arcs back.  
However, my **_**opinion**_** is that it does serve a purpose within the generic. First is that it sets the stage in case I choose to write any other story from a specific angle. Second is that I finally figured out **_**why**_** Anzu allowed this arc to end the way he did.  
Apparently, even some of the gods are not omnipresent, and Anzu could not take care of all his schemes at once.**

* * *

The Hunted

It was not the first time Anzu wished he had the power of the greater gods, and he doubted it would be the last.

He raced to a distance where he could pass through the veil, _without_ affecting the child. Omnipresence would have done nicely; such a power would have meant that he could work his plans from anywhere, everywhere. Omniscience would mean Anzu would at least _know_ when he had to act. But no, not for the likes of him. The only god with _those_ powers was the One Who decreed that mortals _must_ have their free will. It was Anzu's own responsibility to ensure that he never broke that law, and to fix his own mistakes when he did. And he was allowed barely more power than a mortal to do it.

He was simply fortunate that he had only _one_ other world to deal with. Those with strong magics, as the Blackwell child had, never had much connection to other worlds. Oh, there might be two people with the same background, the same nature, the same life. But those sames were all coincidence; unless the _worlds_ were specifically connected, as were these two, such people never had doubles.

And those mortals who could pass through the veil and walk in these other worlds, as the shamans frequently accomplished, had _no_ doubles, even within the connected worlds. Even the gods did not know which was cause and which effect.

The Blackwell boy, alas, was not so unique as that, and Anzu had frequently passed between the two worlds, adjusting things to keep the two worlds, the two _children_, as close to the same as he could. For it was not just the one Blackwell child that was important, it was also the child on the _other_ side of the veil. Anzu did not care to wager how things would be affected if he allowed their circumstances to become _too_ different.

But those sames generated a few new problems.

Anzu completed the spell and crossed the veil, and searched for the other Blackwell boy. Like as not, his spirit would still be shaped as that pup. With luck, he would still be fighting that other beast.

_This_ child could not count on his father's intervention. For there was something Anzu had not told Jonathon. The birdman had opened the veil to make the one Doyle see what the other could see; those illusions Anzu had used to trick him...had not been illusions, but his own parents—another _version_ of them, from this other world. _They_ were as evil as the other two were good; the Grey Men in this other world had hunted them down to _protect_ the children. And poor, innocent Doyle had trusted his parents as readily as did his double, and feared the people who'd _killed_ his parents just the same.

Anzu spotted them, in time for the herd of cattle to chase one of the beasts away.

The other beast...did not move.

—

"Hey, what's gotten into you fellows?" the farmer asked, pushing his way through the cattle. "What are—" He stared at the body of the beast. His face paled, and he stumbled backwards, away from the dead monster.

He did not notice Doyle's body until he tripped over it.

He stared at the creature, then back down at the child. "Who did this to you?" he whispered. He hesitated, then reached for the gag.

Anzu watched, sadly.

The farmer removed the gag and bent over the child. His eyes widened. "Still alive," he murmured.

Anzu looked up. _Alive? But the beast—_ He watched the farmer with some confusion.

The farmer searched around and found the remains of one of the hunters. He did not want to touch the body, but he forced himself to, and found the hunter's knife. He cut the child free of the cords, and picked up the small form. He stared at the body of the beast.

"They thought to use you as bait, didn't they? To make a meal for her?" Something growled in the distance, and the farmer caught sight of a large pair of eyes in the trees. "Poor girl must have had pups to feed, and them monsters meant _you_ to feed them?" He did not question the creature's death; he did not want to wonder what sort of predator could have brought her down.

_Girl?_ Anzu repeated. _Pups? What—_ He dove at the body of the dead animal. _This is—this is the _female_! The adult! Then the other—the pup?_

He flew into the tree line, searching for the animal the farmer had just seen.

—

"Doyle!" Anzu called out. "Doyle, where are you?"

He searched the woods, hoping the child was undamaged, praying, petitioning the kings of his own pantheon and the One Who created all, that he would find the child in time.

He found a pup of a beast, huddled and shivering with reaction.

"Doyle?" Anzu sent a mental image of the boy's human form.

The pup raised his head and looked at the birdman. _Who are you?_ The "voice" was accented by the beast's mind, but the undertones were those of the child.

"Never mind that," Anzu replied. "Doyle, you haven't much time. You need to get back into your body."

The pup looked off in the direction of the farmer. _Can't._

"You _must_ return," Anzu said. "Mortal bodies will not last very long without the spirit. If you don't return soon, that body will die."

_Can't,_ the pup repeated. _Can't get close._ He shuddered again. His thoughts carried the image of the herd.

Anzu believed he knew what humans meant when they spoke of wanting to bang one's head against a wall. "You need physical contact, don't you?" he groaned.

The pup sent a feeling of agreement.

"And the herd will just drive you off again, if you approach as _that_ thing," Anzu muttered. And the child _still_ did not know what he had done, or else he could easily change into something the herd would let pass. But these changes had happened by instinct, and those instincts did not recognize any immediate danger in remaining as he was.

Anzu _could_ teach him to return without that contact, or to take on other forms willingly. But such lessons would be wasted if they took too long. Could he teach the pup to strengthen that connection, to exist beyond the physical body for a longer time?

Anzu considered what little he knew of mortal strength and decided he could teach the child. But it would take time; he must remain in this world during the lessons.

He set a spell to watch Jonathon and Anna in the other world. He was not omniscient for _living_ mortals, but he could keep an eye on them, at least.

"All right," Anzu said. "I'll do what I can to help. The first lesson is of endurance."

* * *

**Drew will appear next chapter.**


	34. Elsewhere

**Reminder: the previous chapter took place exclusively in the Monday Universe.**

**This one is back in the Saturday dimension.  
The next one...will probably switch between the two.  
**

**I don't own Drew, their parents, Van Rook, or the Secret Saturdays.  
I own Aeron, the people in the bar...and whoever else.  
Unless it's someone I merely forgot to mention. Then JS probably owns him, her, or it.**

**I **_**might**_** go into detail if I ever write about Drew's childhood, but for the moment, I don't even want to **_**try**_** to figure out what's going on with Drew Monday, except if and when it ties into what's going on with Drew Saturday.**

**Fernanda:  
(in a bad imitation of "Chip" Douglas from "The Cable Guy") Am I really your friend?  
(normal voice) Seriously, though, thanks. Always nice to hear...read...you know what I mean!  
(No, _I'm_ not a smart-alek! Just ask me!)**

**Timing: A day, maybe a week, a short time, anyway, following the previous chapter.  
**

* * *

The Hunted

Drew walked away from another Romani caravan. _Nobody_ had seen Doyle. They'd given her food, shelter, money, and the promise to keep an eye out for the child, but not one had any new information.

Several of the _chovihano_ had detected the spell on the medallion, but by the time they tracked down the signal, it had moved again.

"Stupid spell," she muttered. "I could've walked by him every five minutes and not know it." She knew _why_ that spell had been cast, but had no way to know how it affected her search.

She fingered the pendant the Mulo Clan's _chovihano_ had given her. It was _supposed_ to let her see through the medallion's spell, but without the actual medallion, the _chovihano_ had no way to key it to the other spell. He could only guarantee that it would help boost her own sensitivity, but he had not known if it would be enough. She couldn't even be sure if Doyle was alive, except if he wore the medallion.

"What I wouldn't give for one of dad's compass spells," she said with a sigh. But those spells had been his own invention—along with almost every spell he'd used—and nobody else knew how to recreate them. Even if they had, no _chovihano_ could track down Doyle's spirit without first having keyed him into one of their own spells.

The last clan had been the worst. It was her grandfather's clan, and none of them had known that anything had happened! She'd left as soon as they told her that; she hadn't even bothered to speak to her grandfather.

_Soon,_ she told herself. _I'll go back soon, and tell him about mom and dad. I don't remember why we left, and I don't care; it's been too long, whatever the reason, and he deserves to know what happened. But I _can't_ go back, not until I've found Doyle._

She came in sight of a town, and paused. She'd asked at the farms and the Clans she'd come across, but the only town she'd checked was near the train wreck. Neither Fae nor the Mulo Clan had gone into much detail, but they'd given her the impression that Doyle had had a _very_ bad time with the villages. She doubted he would have gone into a town, but....

_Doyle_ might not have gone into a town, but he was probably hurt from the train wreck; someone could have found him and taken him to one.

She didn't know what problems Doyle had faced in those other villages, but the people _she'd_ run into after the Mulo Clan didn't seem to care that she was Romani. They were either nice to her or they weren't; that she was Romani did not seem to matter.

She frowned. Town or not? There were more people, maybe too many for her to ask. But suppose someone _had_ seen him, and she just avoided the place?

She frowned, but finally made up her mind.

Once inside, she looked around; there didn't seem to be many people on the streets this late in the day. Where should she start?

_There,_ she decided. Several people went in and out of a building up ahead. _Even if they haven't seen him, maybe they can tell me where I need to go._

—

Van Rook woke from a fitful sleep. The woman in his dreams—she was familiar, somehow, but he could not remember why.

"Can't sleep?" Aeron asked. "Ain't your turn to watch for another couple hours yet; did you maybe want something to help?" He held out a canteen.

Van Rook muttered something, but pushed the canteen away. Aeron's eyebrows shot up, but Van Rook merely shook his head. "I—had a strange dream," he said. "I am trying to figure it out."

"Oh? What kind of dream, oh wonderful boss of mine?"

Van Rook snorted. "If you are trying to flatter me into letting you drink this," he said, snatching away the canteen, "you have lost your mind." Aeron snickered. "There was...a woman—"

"Ooh, a _woman_...." Aeron chuckled. "So you've got yourself a _lady_ on the side, huh? Is she—" Van Rook swung at him, and Aeron ducked. "Getting slow," Aeron said with a smirk.

The old mercenary growled. "Not _that_ kind of dream, you insolent pup!" he snarled. Aeron merely snickered again. "She told me—she told me she knew someone who could help me find Vadoma...but that she needed my help, first."

"Oh, is _that_ all?" Aeron muttered. "It's just wishful thinking, you know that, right?"

"Maybe," Van Rook replied, "but it's as much a lead as any I've had."

"But it's just a dream," Aeron protested. "What makes you think this woman even exists, huh?"

"She _does_," Van Rook replied. "I have met her before. I'm not certain when or where, but I _do_ know her."

Aeron shook his head, but did not argue when Van Rook strapped on his jet pack and took off.

They flew over several towns without stopping; Aeron tried over each town to speak to Van Rook, but received no response. When they landed and took off their masks, Aeron tried again, then stepped back in surprise. The man looked like he was _sleepwalking_!

"That'd explain the flight," Aeron muttered. Van Rook wandered off, still in that apparent daze. Aeron rushed to keep up with him.

Van Rook stopped in front of one building, told Aeron to stay put, then walked inside.

Aeron grimaced when he saw _what_ building it was. "Perfect!" he said. "He refuses his whiskey, just to go into a strange bar? Oh, the boss will just _love_ hearing about this!"

—

Van Rook snapped back to his senses and looked around. The woman in his dreams had told him to come here, but she hadn't told him what to expect when he arrived.

He scanned the crowd, and his gaze came to rest on the white-haired woman speaking to the bartender.

_White hair?_ The bartender shook his head, and the woman turned away. Van Rook caught just a glimpse of her face.

"Found her," he said into his radio. He tried to weave his way through the crowd—

"_Yeah, you don't plan on doing anything _stupid_, do you boss?_" Aeron replied. "_I mean, what did you plan on saying to her?_"

That stopped Van Rook short. "I.... My dream...."

"_You want to tell her you dreamed about her?_" Aeron laughed. "_Yeah, I know what _that_ will sound like. 'You tired, baby? Cause you been walking in my head all day.' What, are you my age, trying out your first lame pick-up line?_"

"I suppose _you_ could do better," Van Rook growled.

"_Sure, if I was in there._"

"She spoke to _me_, Aeron. I'll—I'll think of something." Besides, the dream hadn't actually said that she would help; rather, the dream-woman had said that helping her could give him a key to learning Vadoma's fate. Whatever that was supposed to mean.

And the dream had never specified what kind of help he was supposed to give her in exchange for that "key."

As Van Rook continued to observe the woman, he realized that she was _not_ the one from his dream. This woman was younger, perhaps Aeron's age—not a woman, but a _girl_! But she looked like enough to the one in his dream as to be that one's sister. Or maybe daughter, if the dream-woman had just a few more years on her.

It took a force of will to just settle back and watch her, and _wait_ for the right time to approach.

A group of young men approached the woman—_girl!_ One of them leaned down to speak to her. The smile on her face was odd; Van Rook thought she looked relieved, but wary at the same time.

One of the other men handed her a drink. She sipped at it, and her eyes flew wide. She stared at the young men, suspicious, watching them drink. After a moment, she relaxed a fraction and began sipping at the mug again.

Van Rook stiffened. He thought he'd seen one of the men—he wasn't sure _what_ he'd seen.

He looked for an opening in the crowd and tried to push his way through.

"_Hold it,_" Aeron said. "_What now?_"

"I think one of them put something in that drink," Van Rook replied. He did _not_ like their expressions; they reminded him of those thugs, when they'd spoken of what they had done to Vadoma. The only thing missing was the fear.

But the girl did not seem to notice.

"_And you're going to do what? Tell her? Confront them? Turn on your camera, will you?_" Van Rook switched on the lens so that Aeron could see the same thing. "_Thought so. Look, this may not be any gentleman's club, but it's a step above the sort of bar where someone like _you_ might be seen. Two steps, maybe three, when you remember that these little towns don't _have_ any clubs._"

"And you know _so_ much about who would visit a bar."

"_You're missing the point,_" Aeron said with a sigh. "_You're lucky nobody's noticed you _yet_. If you try to confront them, _you'll_ be the troublemaker, all right?_"

Van Rook growled, but relented, and continued to watch. _What is wrong with me? I know all of this. I shouldn't need _Aeron_ to remind me of what is only common sense._

The young men watched the girl as she continued to drink from the mug.

—

Drew put down the mug. Her head felt weird. She had thought maybe it was whatever they'd given her, but they were drinking the same thing, and none of _them_ seemed affected.

_I've been wandering too long,_ she finally decided. _I haven't gotten a proper rest, and I've only eaten while I'm walking. It's just catching up to me, is all._ She put her head in her hands and stifled a groan at the feeling in her head. _Tough. I'll settle down when I've found my brother, not until._

One of the young men smirked at his partners before coming to her side of the table. "Hey, you okay, sweetie?"

"I don't—I don't know," Drew replied. "I feel funny."

"You've probably been up too long," he said. "You need to be in _bed_. Of course, you haven't got anywhere to go—" He seemed to think for a moment. "Why don't you come with me and my buddies? We can take you somewhere to sleep for a _long_ time, and we can help you look for your brother when you feel all better, okay?"

Drew peered at the man. She thought she could hear her mother, screaming in her head to stay _away_ from these people, but she couldn't think straight. And they _had_ offered to help her look—

"Sure," she mumbled. She let them help her to her feet, then clutched at the table as a wave of dizziness went over her.

They led her outside and helped her into the back of their vehicle. She felt so horrible, she didn't even care that they'd just put her inside of a horse wagon.

Not one of the group was aware of the two masked men that followed them.


	35. Different Sort of Predator

**I don't own Doyle, Drew, Van Rook, or the Secret Saturdays.  
I do own Aeron and the group of not-so-nice young men.**

* * *

The Hunted

Drew didn't know how far they took her. She'd felt horrible when they helped her into the wagon, and felt worse with every second that passed.

She curled up in a corner and tried to ignore her misery, at least to ride it out. She kept telling herself that she was just tired, that she'd just made herself sick from traveling too long.

She didn't realize they'd stopped until they opened the doors. She barely glanced up when one of the men climbed in with her.

The man shook her by the shoulder. She tried to pull free. "Leemelone," she mumbled. "Donfeelgood." She rolled over to face the side of the wagon. She heard him chuckle about something.

He grabbed her by the shoulder and forced her to face him. She closed her eyes and tried to ignore him. She mostly succeeded...until she felt his hand in her shirt.

Her eyes flew open, and she winced at the stab of light. But the man seemed not to notice her reaction, and had begun tugging at her pants.

"Hey!" She tried to push him away from her, but he only gave her a weird grin. "Let me go!"

"Ah, guess your medicine made you feisty, huh?" He ignored her protests and forced his mouth over hers.

He shoved his tongue into her mouth....

And she bit down.

—

The others waited outside and took bets on how long their comrade would take with her.

They heard a loud _thud_ and they jumped, then stared as the wagon rocked back and forth, nearly rocking off the wheels.

One of them snickered. "Damn, but she _must_ be a good one. If I'da known she'd be givin' a workout, I'd have gone first!"

Two others muttered among themselves. "How much did you give her?" the leader asked.

"More than enough," the other one replied. "She'd been feeling bad ever since she took a drink; she ought to be _out_ by now. We ought to be wondering if some of us would take turns with a corpse, not _this_."

The leader nodded and gave a signal to his group. They readied weapons. The one who'd spoken eagerly looked at the leader curiously, but nodded and reached for the door.

The man inside blew through the door and on top of the one at the door. He scrambled to his feet, stared into the wagon, and tripped over his feet trying to run away. Blood spilled from his mouth.

Drew stepped out and spit out a mouthful of blood. She glared at the man who'd touched her, and pointed her sword at him. "Don't...ever....touch...me..._again_," she snarled. She took another step, and nearly collapsed. She had to push the sword into the dirt to brace herself.

"Well, now, how do you like that?" the leader said with a laugh. "Looks like our little pet likes playing with things that are long and hard. What's the matter, sweetie? He wasn't big enough for you? Ain't as good as that sword?" She glanced at him, and he smirked. "Seems to me that the sword's a bit much for you. Maybe you want something a little gentler, huh?"

Her eyes widened in fear, and she tried to push herself to her feet. "Stay away from me," she hissed. She leaned against the wagon and raised the sword.

"Ain't nobody going to hurt one of _my_ gang," the leader growled, "certainly not a little girl no better than she ought to be." He gestured to the others and they advanced on her. "Grab her. Hold her down, so we can do this right."

The leader and two other men rushed her. She tried to run around the wagon, but they blocked any escape.

She swung her sword, and the leader stumbled back and clutched at his bleeding arm. She took the opening and ran...but the only place to run was back inside the wagon.

The leader looked up and grinned, then followed her and punched her on the jaw, sending her sprawling.

She reached for the sword, but he kicked it away. He pulled a knife and leaned over her.

She pulled away from him. "Please," she said. _I should be able to fight him_, she thought. But she didn't feel good. She felt _weak_. She could barely stand. She could not fight them, not even to save her own life. "Please don't. Don't touch me. Please don't kill me."

"Sorry, little girl," he hissed. "You missed that chance when you attacked my gang. But don't worry." He let the knife blade glide over her throat, almost caressing. "I'll make it quick."

"No!"

He raised the knife....

Gunshots flew into the wagon, and the gang leader tumbled over Drew's huddled form.

She looked up to see a masked man, clad in armor, step into the wagon. "Now, maybe I'm just suffering from a language problem," he said to the gang leader, "but didn't she just say 'don't touch'? Or does that mean something different around here?" He spoke French, like the gang, but his accent was strange.

"_Do you _have_ to play around?_" the voice on his radio said. "_We're making a lot of noise out here, and I'd rather not be around to answer questions if the authorities ever show up._"

"Yeah, sure, whatever, boss," the masked man said. "I seem to recall coming after this girl was _your_ idea."

"_Just make it quick._"

The gang leader picked himself up off the floor and threw himself at the masked man.

The masked man aimed something on his wrist at the gang leader and fired twice. The gang leader staggered and dropped to the ground.

Drew pressed herself into the corner and stared between the masked man and the gang leader. She could not reach her sword, and whatever they'd given her had made her too weak to defend herself. She whimpered as the masked man approached.

He reached down and picked her up. "Let me go! Put me down!" She struggled in his grip, and soon realized that her kicks and punches were not very effective against his armor. "I said, let _go_!"

She caught him on the neck, and he dropped her for a moment. "Hey!" he protested, when he could speak without coughing. "Ow! Is that how you treat your rescuer?"

Drew wasn't listening. She dodged around him and tried to grab her sword, but the gang leader's body was on top of it.

The masked man threw a weighted rope at her, knocking her to the ground and pinning her arms to her sides in one move. "Come on, will you?" he grumbled and lifted her to his shoulders. "I haven't got all day."

He took one hand off of her and touched something on his chest, and flew out of the wagon and into the air.

She struggled briefly...then stared at something behind him.

The other masked man on the ground heard the growl of a large animal, and turned away from the fight to see....

A very large wolf-like creature leap onto the wagon.

"_Aeron_!" the man on the ground screamed; Aeron could hear him without the radio. "_Behind you!_"

Aeron turned to see, and his eyes widened as he watched the creature come right for him.

The beast landed on him, driving him and Drew to the ground.

Aeron plowed to a stop, too stunned to realize he was no longer in the air. Drew rolled out of his grasp.

The beast advanced on her, its jaws dripping. She saw the creature coming, but she couldn't even lift her head without pain.

Van Rook launched himself into the creature's side, knocking it off its feet. He drew a knife and tried to stab it, screaming every obscenity he could think of, and a few he might have made up on the spot.

The beast rolled to its feet and evaded Van Rook's blows. It swung out a paw and caught the man on the helmet, making him stagger. But he shook it off and lunged again.

The beast eventually caught Van Rook in its jaws and threw him to the ground. Before he could rise again, it grabbed his head in its jaws and bit down.

Van Rook continued to scream, in a mix of rage and pain and fear.

One fang punched through his mask. The beast jerked its head, tearing the mask free.

Van Rook scrabbled to grab his knife.

The beast lowered its jaws again over its prey.

And was thrown onto its side by a blast of blue light.

The beast scrambled to its feet and turned to face Drew. She braced herself against the wagon, sword in both hands.

The beast leaped towards her, and she knocked it back with another blast from the sword.

Van Rook struggled to his feet and looked at her. "Can you keep that up?" he called. She merely nodded, never taking her eyes away from the beast, and he limped to where Aeron lay. He removed the boy's mask and peered into his face. "Aeron? Aeron, are you all right?" He shook Aeron's shoulder. "Aeron, please, wake up!"

Aeron opened one eye and moaned. "_Ow_," he said.

"Aeron! Oh, thank the gods, are you all right? Can you stand?"

"Ugh.... I don't know," Aeron mumbled. "Why don't you get off me so I can try?"

Van Rook pulled back a few inches, just enough room for Aeron to sit up. The boy tried to climb to his feet, but finally had to allow the older mercenary to pull him up.

Aeron recovered their gear, and Van Rook ran to the wagon to catch Drew before she collapsed.

He gathered her and the sword into his arms, and turned to watch the beast that had attacked. But the creature was busy licking its wounds, and didn't appear to want to attack again.

Van Rook and Aeron exchanged a glance, then they flew off into the night, leaving the beast to investigate what was left of the gang.

**

* * *

I believe somebody said they wanted a fight scene with Drew. I don't much like writing fight scenes, because they tend to be rather confused in my head...and putting them in words makes it worse, not better.  
But this scene was part of the storyline, so I had to figure out a way to write it in. And some **_**fights**_** tend to involve a lot of confusion, so maybe it works, anyway.**

**In any case, it proves that, in spite of the ego boost some readers are trying to give me, there's **_**always**_** room for improvement.**


	36. End of the Hunt

**I don't own Doyle, Drew, Van Rook, the grey demons, or the Secret Saturdays.  
Or Doyle, Drew, Van Rook, or the grey hunters. In whatever fashion any of them manage to show.  
I do own Aeron, Anzu, the farmer and his family...and Aeron, the farmer, and his family.**

**Another "recycle theories into original fiction" chapter.  
I have a couple of original stories that involve travel between different universes, and while those stories have not **_**yet**_** addressed the concern about doubles, I'm interested in learning what people think of my "rules" on the subject.  
And my rules (vague as they're presented) on shape-shifting (or spirit-walking, in Doyle's case), as well, as incomplete as they are, as yet.  
**

**Um...this chapter splits a little between the two worlds. The sections are as follows:  
Monday  
Saturday  
Saturday**  
**Monday  
Saturday**

**And I finally say straight out what the creature was, so if there's anybody who hasn't bothered to guess....  
(I'm **_**pretty**_** sure I never actually named the thing in the other chapters.)**

* * *

The Hunted

"Doyle, _no_!" Anzu flew at the pup, trying to drive him away from the humans. "Leave them!"

_But I'm hungry,_ the pup whined.

"Then go chase a deer, or something. Don't you _dare_ touch the humans."

_Don't _want_ a deer!_ The boy-pup's "voice" sounded disdainful of the idea._ I want the two-leggers!_

It was difficult. Even as a spirit, the boy needed food; his human instincts insisted on it, and the pup's instincts told him these humans were prey. And every minute he spent in this form, the more his human thoughts became entrenched in the pup's mind. Anzu could no longer tell which thoughts were the beast's and which the boy's, even when those thoughts turned in this direction.

If Anzu could coax him into a different shape, he _might_ salvage the child's sanity, but the boy did not yet have the experience to change to a less familiar shape. This creature was already far too familiar to the boy's mind; the longer he stayed this way, the more familiar it would become, the more difficult to become anything else.

"Doyle, _listen_ to me," the birdman pleaded. "You used to want to catch a deer. Don't you remember?" Technically, Anzu had only seen that thought in the _other_ Doyle's mind, but if they were similar enough.... "You'd watch the wolves hunt; you longed to join them, to go after such prey. Now you _can_. You don't even need to wait for the pack. You could go catch a deer all on your own."

The pup snarled, looked at Anzu in some confusion, shook his head, and snarled again. But he finally assented, and slunk back into the trees. He didn't care about that memory, but he accepted that Anzu would not let him hunt the two-leggers.

It didn't help that some part of Anzu _wanted_ the pup to hunt them. Not the girl, of course; not Doyle's sister, nor the older mercenary. But those monsters that had tried to hurt the girl...or Aeron....

For not everyone was different from one world to the next, and even the gods could not predict why they would change, or how. Most of the people Doyle had encountered since the storm had behaved the same in each world; likewise with the girl. Doyle, himself, had been near identical, until this accident of timing had trapped this one in the form and mind of a man-eater. Such a shame that he'd also been identical in the trust he'd held for his parents.

This world's version of Van Rook was certainly ruthless—he had to be, to have survived with this world's Jonathon Blackwell for a master—but he was also like his double in that he genuinely cared about his own family, and about the children of that master. But for all his intelligence and ruthlessness, in both these worlds, and likely others, his grief, his belief that Aeron was all that was left of his family, blinded the mercenary to the monster lurking behind that human face. Aeron had manipulated that blindness far too often in both worlds.

Anzu shuddered. These two versions of _that_ monster were entirely too similar. The key difference was that _this_ Aeron had not needed Anzu's "help" to poison Doyle that time. Small miracle that his own masters, those grey hunters, were also ruthless, and had thoroughly intimidated him into avoiding the child.

The grey hunters.... _There_ was a key difference that seemed to make _no_ difference. The grey hunters were as pure in intent in one world as the grey demons were corrupt in the other. Yet their methods, their obsession with secrecy, made them suspect in _any_ world. Those mortals who'd thought to protect Doyle had viewed them as a threat in both cases.

And while Anzu had fought to keep the grey demons from taking Doyle in one world, he was unable to prevent Doyle in the other from running away from the grey hunters.

—

"Is it after us?" Aeron said into his radio.

"Why don't you go ask it?" Van Rook replied. "I'm not looking."

"I'm serious, boss; we need to set down, soon!"

Van Rook started swearing.

Aeron shook his head. "We burned off a lot of fuel getting this girl. I figure we got maybe a few miles left in the tanks, yet. So unless you know where we're going...."

Van Rook searched for a few more choice words. They didn't just need to land; they needed _shelter_, but the little farms they passed over would be too small if that beast came after them. Then he spotted a cluster of buildings in the distance. "There!" He angled down towards the farm complex.

They landed and immediately began searching for a way in.

The creature roared in the distance.

Aeron cringed. "Please tell me that thing's just got a big set of lungs," he said, "because that sounded _way_ too close." He glanced over to see Van Rook kicking at the side of the house. "What are you doing?"

"There's doors here," Van Rook replied. "A storm cellar, maybe." He laid Drew down and knelt to examine the doors.

Aeron nodded and knelt to help him dig.

Every time the creature made a noise, they froze and stared around them, hardly daring to breathe lest it hear them. But they eventually managed to uncover one door.

Aeron grabbed the handle and tugged, but it did not budge. "Damn! Probably locked from the inside."

He aimed his wrist blaster, but Van Rook slapped his arm away. "Idiot! You shoot the thing open, then it gives _no_ protection." He looked over the condition of the door, and tried to push his fingers in the crack between the two. "It's old; looks like it hasn't been used in centuries. Might be _rusted_ shut. Keep pulling."

Aeron glowered at the older mercenary, but tried again. He tugged until they heard a click. He wiped his hands on his pants, grasped the handle again, and pulled—

And fell over backwards as the door flung open.

A man came out of the open cellar, pointing a rifle at the mercenaries. "What do you want?" he growled. A voice came from within the cellar. "It ain't the beast," the gunman called down, "it's a couple of people trying to break in."

"Please," Van Rook said. "The girl...she has been attacked. We need shelter."

The gunman glanced at where Drew lay, then returned to glaring at the mercenaries. He opened his mouth to reply, when the beast roared again. The two mercenaries jumped; the creature sounded _much_ closer.

The gunman nodded at them, his eyes wide. "Get inside," he said.

Van Rook picked Drew back up and the two mercenaries climbed inside. The gunman flipped the door closed and locked it behind them.

"Rusted shut, huh?" the gunman said.

Van Rook turned to look at the very solid, very clean door. He lifted one eyebrow. "Pretty good shape, for looking so old."

"I find it deters thieves, and...." The creature roared outside again. "Other things," the gunman continued in a whisper.

The gunman's wife directed Van Rook to a cot where he could lay Drew down.

"What is that thing?" Aeron asked.

"Le Loup de Chazes," the gunman replied. He and his family made religious signs for protection.

Van Rook shuddered. Aeron glanced between the two, confused. "The Wolf of Chazes," Van Rook translated. "The Beast of Gevaudan, a man-eater." He shuddered again.

"I'd heard talk, the last couple of weeks, about a pack of hunters trying to put that thing down," the gunman said. His wife poured some water for the two men.

"Clearly, they have not succeeded," Van Rook said, accepting the cup. "What else have you heard?"

"Buddy of mine, a few miles down the way, found their bodies a few days back," the gunman replied. "What was left of them, anyway." He glowered into his cup.

"Yes, well, from what your buddy says," the man's wife added, her anger rising to match his, "they'd gotten better than they deserved, anyhow."

Van Rook frowned. "But you're living in terror of this thing. If they were trying to kill it—"

"It wasn't what they were trying to do," the gunman's wife replied, "but _how_ they did it."

The gunman nodded. "I figure the creature must have some kind of morals, least when it wants to use them. Never even touched the child that was with them."

"_Child_?" Van Rook repeated.

Aeron quickly rose to his feet and glanced around. "Hey, I'm, uh.... I'm going to have a look around. Check for other openings, okay?"

"Don't go outside," Van Rook warned. "And call me if you see anything." Aeron nodded and found his way out of the cellar. Van Rook stared at the gunman. "The Beast of Gevaudan is well known for preying on children...."

The gunman nodded. "Buddy said, the kid was all trussed up tighter than a chicken dinner," he said. "Hurt real bad, too. Banged up, broken bones, all tore up.... But not _one_ mark from any predator."

Van Rook frowned, and thought this over. "You don't think he was meant for bait?"

"Yup. Me, my buddy, our families," the gunman replied. "We're all of a mind on this one."

He waited until his wife was distracted, tending to Drew and her own children, then leaned in close. "There's something else. See, my buddy ain't given to making up fanciful stories, but...."

—

Aeron waited in another part of the house, listening through the bug he'd left behind. "So what do you think?" he said into his radio. "I mean, it sounds to me like they'd been having a bit too much fun with the sheep, or something, but you people seem to be really into crazy."

"_It's hard to say,_" Epsilon replied. "_I will not know if it's the boy until I see him._"

"And what if he isn't?"

"_Given the farmer's story, he might still prove...of interest._"

Aeron shook his head. Crazy, all of them. "What about the girl?"

Epsilon hesitated. "_She is...not of interest at the moment._"

Aeron's eyes lit up. "Heh. Maybe I can have a bit of fun with her, then," he muttered.

"_I would _not_ recommend it,_" Epsilon replied in a disgusted voice. "_My people have determined that some of these abilities _can_ be passed on genetically. The girl may have atrophied, but any offspring might prove useful._"

"Oh," Aeron said. He tried not to sound too disappointed. "And you want to control whoever she breeds with."

"_Not exactly,_" Epsilon said. "_It is not the _girl_ that concerns us. Rather, most of my people believe _you_ should not be allowed to breed. And we are prepared to take...precautions, if necessary._"

Aeron gulped.

"_Also, this dream business you mentioned sounds a bit intriguing. It would be unwise for you to risk alienating that mercenary. Is that clear?_"

"You wouldn't have to worry about him, if your people had done that break-in job properly," Aeron growled. "Or if you'd just let me kill him."

"_Yes, well, my people believe he is still useful. And unfortunately, you are currently our only link to the mercenary. But you are quite right. If Solés had done that job properly, _you_ would not be necessary._"

"Er...." Aeron shivered. "That wasn't exactly what I meant."

Epsilon chuckled. "_As it happens, we've had a number of incidents where a single unanticipated detail ruined an entire mission. Solés will pay for her mistakes, soon enough. I would recommend that you not mess this up, like you did at that 'orphanage'.... Unless you'd like to join her._"

"No, sir," Aeron mumbled. "So how much time do you need? I figure the 'boss' and I are stuck here for the night, at least."

—

The grey hunters approached the farm in the middle of the night. Anzu watched, but did nothing. He would not intervene unless he needed to.

A few of the hunters broke off from the group and entered the building.

Then the beast struck.

The pup raced out of the woods and tore into the hunters. He was not hunting, not looking for prey. They were too close to his human body; he was seeking to protect himself.

The farmer ran out with a gun, and the pup leaped away from the hunters and bit him in two.

Anzu wanted to stop the pup, but still the birdman forced himself to wait.

The grey hunters trained their own weapons on the pup, but before they could fire—

"Stop!" one of the men called from inside.

The pup turned to face him, but did not attack.

In the man's arms was a small form, covered completely in bandages. Only the shape proved that it was human.

"Are you mad?" one of the other hunters asked. "That thing is a killer. It—"

The man holding Doyle wanted to order them to strike; he didn't know why he'd told them to stop. But Anzu continued to feed other thoughts to his mind. "I think it—I think it's protecting the boy." Some of them began muttering nervously. "_Look_ at it. It stopped its attack as soon as it saw me. Look at how it watches the boy."

True, the thing snarled at them, but it shied away from the man holding the child.

"The thing is a man-eater," another one replied. "The creature is well-known for preying on _children_."

"Remember what that old man had said, about how this one just appeared?" The man glanced at the child in his arms. "The boy's father was a spirit-walker. Suppose the child is the same?"

One of the group nodded, then pulled out a different weapon. He fired at the pup. The boy twitched as the tranquilizer dart hit the beast...then the creature dropped and vanished, leaving the dart behind.

"_Finally_," Anzu muttered as the hunters took the boy away. The grey hunters would be able to help the child, to regain his sanity and learn control of this ability. If they could not help, they would find someone who _could_. Someone who, though less powerful than Anzu, would understand the boy's _human_ needs far better than any of the gods.

It was finally over.

"Pity that mercenary didn't steal them away a long time ago," the birdman grumbled, and sighed. But events had a strange tendency to play out the same in each world. There would be _some_ differences, but only when key players changed their roles did the world itself seem to follow a different path. Even then, it had a stubborn resistance to certain changes, a resistance that even the oldest of the gods had not begun to understand. Which version caused the other was as yet unknown, but Van Rook in the _other_ dimension had had no need to kidnap the children; this world would not have allowed him to behave so differently as that.

But now that the grey hunters had Doyle in this world....

Anzu started shivering as he realized his mistake.

If the grey hunters had Doyle in _this_ world, then the grey demons would also—

Anzu soared into the air and began the spell, begging the Creator that he would not be too late.

—

Van Rook waited until the sun had been up for an hour, and the creature likely asleep, before he and the gunman ventured outside.

The man led him to the generator so that the mercenary could fill the jet packs. Aeron waited inside, watching the girl.

The old man pulled Van Rook aside. "Mind what I said about that pup," he muttered.

"I cannot promise anything," Van Rook replied. "If the thing attacks me, I _will_ have to defend myself—"

"Of course," the man said. "But if it leaves you alone...."

This pup that had appeared and disappeared was certainly odd, and Van Rook suspected these farmers were closer to the truth than they realized. Revan and Fae had told him about how animals seemed to behave strangely around Doyle...and Jonathon had been a spirit walker. If this child that the other farmer had found was Doyle, then maybe that pup....

He wanted to hunt it down, though not in the way these people feared, but the mercenary reflected that even that might spook the creature. Van Rook shook his head, and sighed. "I will leave it alone."

He tossed one of the jet packs to Aeron. "Protect that girl," he ordered. "If you do not hear from me within an hour...do not come looking for me. Just protect her."

"Sure thing, boss," Aeron said with a mock salute.

"Smart ass," Van Rook muttered, and flew off before anyone could reply.

Van Rook recited the gunman's directions in his mind, and flew quickly towards the other farmer's home.

As he neared the place, he happened to glance down at the site where the hunters had met their end—nothing left but red patches fertilizing the grass—and shuddered.

A flicker of orange and red played against his vision, and he looked up.

And stared at the burning building.

Van Rook dumped the jet pack well outside of the wall of heat, dug through his supplies for an air mask, and made his way inside.

But the fire had destroyed too much, and Van Rook was forced to go back outside, to escape the heat.

"_No_!" Van Rook screamed his rage to the sky. "What have those monsters _done_?"

The fire _could_ have come from a spilled lantern. Even that could have spread enough to burn the place down so quickly. But the fire was _small_, too small to be seen from a distance. Even the arrangement of the bodies was suspect.

Everything Van Rook saw spoke of a controlled blaze.

He screamed again, startling a flock of birds out of the trees.

But one bird remained, a hawk that focused on Van Rook's thoughts and made certain that the mercenary arrived at precisely the right conclusion.

Van Rook had just about decided to hunt down the grey demons, when his radio crackled to life.

"_Hey, boss, you might want to come here, quick_," Aeron said in a whisper.

Van Rook snarled, and ignored the radio.

_That's right, ignore it,_ Anzu thought at him. _The trail is still fresh. Only a few hours old. Maybe a bit much for most mortals, but Jonathon taught you well. Ach! Jonathon's going to tan my hide for leaving his girl with _that_ monster, but you _have_ to get the boy._

"_Boss, where are you...?_" Aeron continued. "_Dad?_"

Van Rook blinked in surprise, then picked up the radio.

The hawk above started screeching in pure rage. _No, you fool! He's _playing_ you. He's playing up your feelings; he knows how you feel about your family. Even _I_ can see what he's doing. You're smarter than he is; you should see right _through_ him!_

"What is it?" Van Rook said, his voice raw.

"_Dad, oh, come on, answer me already—_boss_? There's these people come in.... Oh, god, they killed them. Broke in, killed the farmer, whole family. Yahoos in grey trench coats, they—_"

Van Rook's heart froze. "Grey...trench coats?"

"_Yeah. I got me and the girl hid for now, she's still out of it, but.... The whole family's dead. These people shot them up, didn't even ask questions or nothing. They—I hear them talking. Boss, I think they're looking for the _girl_!_"

Shots sounded over the radio.

"Get out of there," Van Rook said. "Both of you. I'll be there soon."

_No,_ Anzu seethed. _No, I can hear him shooting; you check the bodies, the only shots you'll find are the ones you gave Aeron._

But Van Rook was no longer open to Anzu's influence.

_He will pay,_ Anzu vowed. _The grey demons will not stand for his tricks, not for long._ Aeron was not loyal to them; he played up Van Rook's rage and suspicion of the grey demons as readily as he hindered the mercenary's search. It was no longer a surprise to Anzu that many mortals did not much like the gods, not after watching _that_ mortal's games. _And_ _the mercenary...the mercenary _will_ see him for the monster he is. And that monster will pay for his interference._

**

* * *

End of the Hunt marks the end of The Hunted. (And the end of the "childhood" that I planned to salvage for my original fiction, though with a lot of rearranging.)  
I've got one more Doyle-specific arc coming up, then Drew has to share the spotlight with Van Rook for a while, though it's more "Van Rook" than "Drew."  
Then it's back to Doyle. As an adult.**

**End of the Hunt also marks the last appearance of Doyle of the Monday world—as well as the Monday world itself—within the history. Unless a Doyle perspective of canon requires it (as in, not merely a re-creation of Zak's experience in Paris is Melting, but a new episode in which **_**Doyle**_** is involved in the different worlds), we will not specifically see the Monday world, or that Doyle, within the history again.  
But we might see him in one or more of my other stories that **_**stem**_** from the history.**

**And the final note on this and preceding arcs: because of the episode "And Your Enemies Closer" (Hey! I'd planned for **_**years**_** on using that title!), it looks like I might retcon Doyle's past again, or else finally relegate this history to the "Alternate Universe" category.  
Or will I?  
I could have a reason that his memory is faulty (not to mention details he didn't want to reveal), claim that the attack in the episode's flashback occurred **_**before**_** my first chapter, as I'd done with the initial separation....  
And remind readers that, just as there are things within my story that is not in canon but (until JS says otherwise) **_**could**_** have happened, so, too, are there details in canon that do not appear in my story but **_**could**_** have happened, without contradicting my version of events.  
All I'd need to figure out is the **_**reason**_** that his memory would contradict the "past" that I've already used. (And I think one of my readers over at Waking Nightmare already gave me the answer to that one.)  
Oh, wait. That **_**does**_** make it a retcon, doesn't it?  
Eh, whatever.  
Oh, and I need to decide how to incorporate the "reason" into the story...short of simply including a chapter whose sole purpose is to make it happen. (Which I'm seriously considering.)**


	37. A Little at a Time

**And speaking of a potential Alternate Universe...  
See the end of War of the Cryptids?  
Van Rook was written as a key player in many of the stories that draw from this history, so I'm not yet certain how to deal with that episode without resorting to some cheesy cliché workaround.  
Unless JS uses such a workaround in a future episode, hopefully sans cheddar. Then I wouldn't have to worry. I don't see how he could do it without a cliché, though.  
I **_**suppose**_** I could figure out how to redo or remove his role in the story(ies) without a total rewrite...or just label them "Alternate Universe." But the thing is, **_**I don't want to**_**.  
**_**Curse you! Curse you, Rani Nagi!**_**  
*ahem*  
I expect future episodes to air (and possibly give me a solution, or at least more ideas) before I get to that point, though. If nothing else, I have plenty of time to think about it. It shouldn't impact the history any, and I don't plan to actually **_**begin**_** writing/posting those other stories until I've finished this one up.  
But I **_**will**_** have to make some modifications, regardless.  
*shrug*  
Oh, well.**

**Anywho, back to the current work in progress.**

**I decided to go with a one-chapter explanation of why Doyle's memory in "And Your Enemies Closer" contradicts the history I've written thus far. And...other things.  
Maybe.  
Much to my dismay, you could probably also call the resulting chapter "Mr. Exposition."  
Now, let's hope I can do this chapter right, in spite of that particular problem.**

**I don't own Doyle, Epsilon or "his people," or the Secret Saturdays.  
I own Solés and Marie.  
Unfortunately.**

**If anybody's watched Dollhouse...  
Um, yeah.  
Any similarity is entirely coincidental.  
Or maybe the Neuralizer from Men in Black would be a more accurate comparison.  
Or something in between. But without the alien tech in MIB. And the reminder that we **_**still**_** don't know that much about how the brain works.**

**Timing: within a few months of chapter 35. Same calendar year, so still about four years following the Avalanche arc.  
**

* * *

Intermission

"So what's the status?" Solés asked.

"We have mapped 93 percent of his brain activity, including roughly 71 percent of his memories from the entire course of his life," one of the technicians responded. "He has resisted the stimulation in many cases, making it difficult to single out specific times without resorting to a stronger current—"

"Increase to 100 volts, then," Solés interrupted with barely a glance at the readings. "That won't be enough to be lethal, not yet."

"That would not be wise," another woman replied, "not if you want the information intact." Solés looked up to see the ex-military woman, Marie, watching the proceedings with an amused expression. "It's the current forced through the body that matters, not the voltage."

"And you know this, how?" Solés snapped.

"Your files aren't very thorough, not if you have to ask _that_. I need to know these things, know how to keep a prisoner alive and coherent during interrogation." Marie shrugged and grinned. "Take a science class, why don't you? You could get a lethal shock from a toaster, or survive a lightning strike. It's the current that goes _through_ the body that makes it deadly, and that depends on contact points, the condition of the skin, the body's resistance...the fact that you've got him floating in salt water..." she added and rolled her eyes. "And since you're sending the shocks directly to his brain, I couldn't even _begin_ to explain how that would change things. Although...if you factor in resuscitation, then _high_ voltage could—" She smirked. "But I wouldn't want to give you any ideas."

Solés shook her head and ignored the other woman. She peered into the tank and watched as the boy twitched and whimpered and trembled.

Epsilon watched the two women without comment.

Marie stepped up beside her and considered the child's reaction. "If I didn't know any better, I'd think he recognized you," she muttered.

"That's imp—" Solés began.

"Mapping completed," one of the technicians called out.

"Begin analysis," Solés said to the technician. "Prepare him for operation; isolate and destroy all memories."

Epsilon glanced at Solés for a moment, then walked over to speak quietly with the other agents before they could act on the orders.

"That's impossible," Solés snarled at Marie. "It's a sensory deprivation chamber; he can't hear or see _anything_."

Marie shrugged, and Solés finally looked away, unnerved by the other woman's casual manner. "It's amazing," Marie said. "Poor old Doctor Perez has no idea just how close his research was to completion. Shame he didn't stick with the military. But he was so afraid that his research might be taken and used for...for torture or interrogation or something." She snickered. "His only problem was he didn't have the resources you people have."

Solés snorted. "_His_ only problem is that he is an unprofessional, sentimental fool who would sooner throw out his experiment than risk a single bruise to a rat."

"And I suppose damaging the specimen beyond all usefulness is more professional?" Epsilon asked, addressing Solés for the first time that day. "Much as I dislike having to agree with a professional torturer—the fact that _Van Rook_ fired her ought to mean something—" About half of the people present shivered and the other half nodded in agreement. "But what Marie says has merit." He spoke to Solés, but pitched his voice so it would carry through the room. "A damaged specimen should teach restraint, and patience—though in your case, I wonder—but as far as the research is concerned, it is worthless. Just one less specimen to study."

Solés bristled through the entire speech. "You have barely any experience," she hissed, "you come in near the end of the project, but you think to lecture _me_? You acquired _one_ specimen—"

Epsilon smirked. "Says the agent who permanently lost _three_ targets, may have lost two more—three if not for Marie or Aeron, and it speaks ill of our organization that we must rely on the likes of _them_." Marie merely smiled at the remark. "And made it extremely difficult to track down and capture the one target I finally _did_ bring in? In...how many missions was it, Solés?"

Her face turned red. "Two," she mumbled.

"Not to mention all the agents whose lives were lost in that first mission," Epsilon added with a chuckle. "If you were going to waste their lives, wouldn't it have been more effective to throw them at that Yeti? The specimens would not have been scattered, you could have 'rescued' them, and once our people had the children... Well, if the parents truly _were_ useless, we could have dealt with them at our leisure. You could let him _keep_ what little he's gained from his father, let him build on it to give us more to study. Yet you wish to eliminate _everything_, without any regard for how it will affect things, and you only _hope_ that he will still prove useful."

Solés snorted in derision. "The specimen has been resilient so far; like as not, he'll start creating other memories to fill in the gaps."

"Do you know that for a fact?" Epsilon asked, lifting one eyebrow. "Perhaps for a period of a month, a full year, even. But you're suggesting we take nearly a decade from him, _everything_ he has. Even supposing he did 'fill in the gaps,' exactly how will false memories change his value?"

"Interesting point," another agent said. Epsilon and Solés turned and saluted. The other agent returned the salute. The agent then glared at Marie, but she merely stared right back.

Epsilon, freed from his superior's attention, caught her gaze for a few seconds, mimicking her bored manner. She finally snapped off a Russian-style salute and a mumbled "Sir," and lowered her gaze.

The agent returned the salute, then continued, "It is true that eliminating these memories can have...unforeseen consequences. But thus far, he has shown a deep distrust of other people, with good reason; the tank notwithstanding, suppose he _did_ recognize Agent Solés? Or you, or any of the agents he's encountered? I would hardly expect the specimen to _willingly_ participate in those circumstances, and couldn't _forcing_ his obedience also impact the results?"

"Possibly," Epsilon replied. "I am not suggesting, sir, that we should _not_ eliminate those memories. Just...not all at once. If I could advise?"

The superior nodded.

Epsilon smiled. "I would merely suggest that we first complete the analysis, and then eliminate only specific, carefully chosen memories, or even fragments of memories, and those only to limit the chances of disobedience."

"Instead of eliminating those chances entirely?" Solés said.

"Our people could condition him not to disobey," Epsilon said, "but we can not _eliminate_ that chance, except by eliminating _him_. And yet our superiors must think he is still of use, else why bother destroying his memory; why _not_ simply kill him once the readings are analyzed?" He turned back to their superior. "Sir?"

"You already know the answer to that," the other agent replied. "Both of you do."

Epsilon nodded. "But I would like to confirm."

The superior agent nodded to Marie. "Would you like to answer this one?"

"Yes, sir," she replied. "The boy was too young to have learned much of use from his parents, and your people do not yet have the means to train him to further utilize whatever lessons he may have received. However, my understanding is that your people have determined that _certain_ of the desired traits are, or may be, genetic. Once your people have what they can use from his _memory_, further study will show if he is still of use."

"Very good," the superior said. "You learn quickly for a conscript." Between him and Epsilon, she chose not to reply. "So, given those circumstances, Epsilon, have you reasons why he _should_ be allowed to retain his memories?"

"Yes, sir," Epsilon said. He gestured to one of the technicians. "If I may?"

The technician quickly moved, and Epsilon sat down at the vacated terminal and began typing until he found the data he wanted.

An image of the inside of a small orphanage appeared on the screen.

"Some time after I located the specimen in this place, my 'assistant' got it into his head to try to poison him," Epsilon said. "While the specimen will, naturally, have encountered bad food in the time before, what little we could determine seemed to indicate that he was willing to accept food from other people. _After_ Aeron's stunt, however, he did not trust the food that _anybody_ tried to provide, a fact that, if I recall, Solés used to frighten him when she encountered him more than a year after."

He closed down the file, and turned to face the superior. "Suppose we were to eliminate that one memory. That one memory is _not_ an isolated incident; it is connected to his behavior, and his memory of that behavior, in future encounters. If he were made to forget that one incident, would he then forget that he had ever distrusted the food given him? Or would he be paranoid about the issue, with no clear idea _why_? Or supposing we then eliminated the whole of the three years since. Would he forget only the events that occurred...or the time, as well? Perhaps he would think that no time had passed." He smiled at Solés. "It is for _these_ reasons that Perez believes his research is incomplete; there is simply too much that is unknown about how the remaining memories would be affected."

"Your argument has a few holes, Epsilon," the superior said. "Our people don't care about what Aeron had tried to do. The specimen survived, and we can factor health problems into the research; beyond that, it has no effect. It is his _ability_ that is of concern, not his self-esteem." Epsilon nodded. "Also, you speak of the problem with eliminating _one_ trivial incident from his memory, where Solés would eliminate everything. If he truly lost the _time_, as you suggest, and reverted to infancy, he would be assigned to the care of those who train the Francis clones. A pity we do not have the father to train him further," he added with a glance in Solés' direction, "but that would still be sufficient to study him."

"True enough," Epsilon admitted, "but consider this. Though the specimen did evidence ability even before this, it had always seemed a passive variety. Animals behaved oddly around him, nothing more. Even during the torment he faced in the villages, he showed no sign of any active use of that talent...until Aeron tried to hurt him."

Solés opened her mouth to speak, then shut it with a snap. She looked at their superior. "Sir?"

The superior nodded, and gestured for Epsilon to continue.

"Thus far, we have assumed his abilities are a result of his father's training," Epsilon said, "or a product of genetics. We have yet to consider other factors. The father had _no_ training; he'd taught himself to use this skill, a fact that was used to argue that the traits were genetic. And the boy's use when he defended himself from Aeron could have been instinctive. But it _was_ in response to his surroundings, and he _has_ shown evidence of greater skill, provided the trigger is the right one. Suppose, in addition to what little time the specimen had with his father, he'd also begun to teach himself? Even placing him among the clones would no longer be sufficient. We do not have the means to train him; we simply do not know enough about what he is capable of to build on what he already knows."

"I believe you have made your case," the superior said. "So, if the specimen were in your charge, what would you have us do?"

Epsilon called up another file on the terminal. "I would begin by eliminating a single memory—rather a fragment of one. Remove the fragments that deal with our people's connection, but just a little at a time." The screen showed a monster approaching the tents. "Let him remember the Yeti. Let him remember his fear, and the separation from his parents, but let him _forget_ everything after the attack, until, say..." He tapped a few more keys, and an image of the village came up. "The first orphanage. It should not harm the research for him to lose a few days, and if it does, we can watch for it, and know what to expect before we choose another memory. And then we can begin to do the same with the _other_ memories in which he has met our people."

The superior was quiet for a while. He finally nodded. "Do it, then."

**

* * *

I don't remember why I decided that Perez started into that research, except maybe to justify his role as a neurologist/neurosurgeon when he "first" appeared in Skinwalker.  
Perhaps the better question would be: why did I decide he started out as a trauma counselor? (Except maybe to justify **_**why**_** that research led him to neurosurgery, or his understanding of Doyle's problems from a psychological point of view.)  
I mean, I **_**suppose**_** it worked out from the history perspective, but I can't quite recall my reasons for writing him that way, without resorting to circular definitions.  
I know I had one, too; I just don't **_**remember**_** it.  
Hmm...**

**Oh, by the way.  
**_**Yes**_**, they **_**are**_** referring to Doyle as "the specimen."**

**I don't believe future interactions between Doyle and the grey demons will need further explanation.**

**But something seems wrong with the fact that **_**Marie**_**, of all people, refers to him as "the boy."**

**And last...does my dialogue sound weird in parts? Maybe un-Epsilon-ish?  
Note to self: watch Swarm, Paris, and Unblinking Eye another couple of thousand times.**


	38. Training

**Yes, it's been a while. Going through a Master's Degree will do that to a person.  
I've barely even had time to work on my original fiction, much less fan-fiction for a show that hasn't even been **_**on**_** for almost a year.  
But I finally found time to get back to work on this fic...in time for an imminent new semester. Go figure. Hope I can make it to the scene I _wanted_ to pause at before I go on hiatus again.  
**

**Thanks to the episodes "And Your Enemies Closer" and "War of the Cryptids," I have revised my timeline (and other things) all the way up through chapter 37.  
I also decided to swap around the first two arcs, inserted a new chapter 30, and made various corrections for typos and the like throughout the story. I wouldn't be surprised if I'd missed something, though, so would appreciate the feedback.  
And I shifted around my replies to reader reviews. If yours is one of the first 11 reviews I've received, the reply (if any) is now in the chapter immediately following your review.  
Future replies may be displaced as those had been, depending on when and where readers continue to review.  
I will continue to make minor changes of the technical kind. But the story should be able stand as it is for the moment, while I finally start banging out some new chapters. At least until I reach the point where I **_**wanted**_** to take a break, and work on other stories before I start forgetting them.**

**Now, then:**

**I don't own Doyle or his parents, the Secret Saturdays, Epsilon or his people, or Arthur Beeman.  
I own Andres (who, unlike most other generics, **_**was**_** named in an attempt at cultural reference—key word being "attempt") and any other generic or anonymous characters.**

**New language: I use what, according to Wikipedia, are words in the Peruvian Coastal Spanish dialect.  
However, further googling has indicated that at least one of the words I use might not mean what Wikipedia says it means, so again, I don't know how accurate I might be.**

**Timing...say within a few months of chapter 37. No more than six months after chapter 36.  
Same calendar year as both, so four years following the Avalanche arc.**

* * *

Corrections

Andres watched as Arthur paced the room for Powers only knew how many times.

Andres stifled a yawn, and Arthur spun to glare at him. "Don't even _think_ of it!" Arthur snapped.

Andres blinked. "Sor-_ry_. It's not every day I get to stay up until—" He glanced, then stared, at his watch. "Is that _morning_? It's your shift, boss. I'd usually have been in bed hours ago."

"He's supposed to be here," Arthur muttered. "Those people just get off on wasting my time, don't they? A whole day I could be working, but _no_, I have to wait for one of them."

"He said he'd show, when? Noon-ish? We'd been doing nothing but wait all night!" Andres shook his head. "They're not the ones that made you waste the day, _chibolo_."

Arthur stopped and scowled at the man. "Too many projects would require more than a day of work," he said. He tried to ignore the other insult; the difference in their ages was slight enough that it could almost have been casual. "I cannot drop everything in the middle of a process just for them, so yes, _they_ are wasting _my_ time." He groaned. "Remind me why I agreed to this?"

Andres shrugged. "Sure, just as soon as you remind me why I agreed to work for you." He pointed to a door. "At least take a shower, would you?"

"I _can't_," Arthur protested, "at least not until after he's left. I can't be off guard against these people! I have to be ready for anything. I've been up all night making sure that there's nothing that could distract—"

"And you _look_ it," Andres replied. "You sure letting them see that is any smarter than dropping your guard? At least a quick shower would help wake you up a little." He grinned. "And maybe make them think the world _doesn't_ revolve around them, make them wait, waste _their_ time a little."

Arthur frowned, but conceded that his assistant had a point.

"Least they only called yesterday," Andres muttered, after Arthur had gone. "Else he'd have been stressing out even longer. You'd think he was dealing with the Mafia or something, the way he's been carrying on."

—

Andres waited until the door buzzed three times before answering. "Hola, Beeman residence. UFOs Extraordinaire. We are not available right now, so if you leave—"

"You do realize, I _can_ see you," the man in grey interrupted.

Andres shrugged. "Didn't hurt to try."

The man snorted. "Where is Dr. Beeman?"

"Busy," Andres replied.

"Then _get_ him," the man in grey snarled, "and make him _un_busy. I have business to settle with him."

"Who shall I say is looking for him?" Andres asked, trying for a bored tone.

"I am Agent Epsilon," the man in grey replied. "I spoke to Dr. Beeman yesterday. I—"

But Andres had already wandered off.

A few minutes passed, and Andres returned to let Epsilon in.

Epsilon grabbed a little boy by the back of the neck, and shoved the child into the room ahead of him.

The boy staggered and nearly fell, regained his balance, then huddled in corner away from them.

Andres frowned at the agent's behavior, but was determined not to let up the act. He decided he'd mention it to Arthur, and cleared his throat to catch Epsilon's attention. "He's just finishing up—big project, can't just drop it in the middle, you see—but the boss ought to be done soon. So, if you don't mind waiting a few more minutes..."

Epsilon narrowed his eyes at Andres.

And the child, whom Epsilon was now deliberately ignoring, _cringed_.

Andres thought that behavior was very odd, and considered remarking on this. But before he could open his mouth, Arthur walked into the room.

Epsilon glanced up at Arthur and noticed his wet hair. The agent looked at Andres with a raised eyebrow. "Busy with a big project?"

Andres shrugged. "Wouldn't want hygiene corrupting the results, would we?" He turned to Arthur. "The _gallinazo_ says he's Epsilon, the guy who spoke to you yesterday about a job?"

Arthur nodded. Somehow he managed to keep a straight face. The agent didn't look _quite_ like a vulture, but he had the feel of one. "Yes, he's the same one." Arthur kept his arms folded, even when Epsilon offered his own hand.

Epsilon waited a moment more, then put his hand down. "I must say, I don't often hear of the _host_ being late to a meeting. Not in his own base, at least."

"I don't see why not," Arthur replied. "Not if this is how you arrange your meetings. I never invited you; for that matter, I don't even _want_ you here. Yet here you are. I've had to put my projects on hold to talk with you, and that is something that I'm just not in the habit of doing." His smile matched the chill in his tone. "If you honestly think you're going to work for me, you need to learn to work on _my_ schedule."

Epsilon stared at him for a moment, then burst out laughing. The child started to inch away from him, but froze when the agent looked in his direction. "I never said _I_ would work for you," Epsilon replied.

Arthur watched him curiously. "You didn't—then where is this field assistant you _insisted_ I need to hire?"

Epsilon gestured at the child. "Doyle will be your new assistant."

"What." Arthur stared for a moment. He shook his head. "If I'd known your people had such a sense of humor," he muttered, "I never would have agreed to this meeting."

"Begging your pardon," Epsilon said, "but I am completely serious. It will be useful for his training."

"I agreed to this meeting, Epsilon," Arthur snarled, "interrupted _my_ work, because you told me you had someone I _need_ to hire. Not some feeble minded _toddler_ who ought to be at home with his parents!"

The boy watched the two of them; Epsilon had calmed down, but Arthur became angrier with every word. The louder he became, the more the boy cringed.

Epsilon shook his head, mildly amused. "The boy is an orphan." He turned to leave.

Arthur opened his mouth to continue shouting...then snapped it shut. "Not my concern," he finally said, racing after Epsilon to keep up. "Try, uh...Cheechoo. Their youngest is the type for stray pets, isn't he? Give the boy to _them_."

"That...is an option, yes," Epsilon replied, slowly. "But it is not ideal, under the circumstances." He shook his head. "You must not let his age fool you; the boy _will_ be an asset in...certain of your projects."

"I don't have time to _babysit_," Arthur protested.

"I wasn't _asking_ you to," Epsilon replied. He reached his ship and climbed in. Before he closed the door, he turned to look Arthur in the eye. "We shall speak again."

After the airship left, Arthur turned around to head back to his lab...and caught sight of the child. "You're still _here_?" he muttered. "Hey, Andres, you mind telling me when I lost that argument?"

"Probably when that _gallinazo_ decided he wasn't arguing," Andres said, and shrugged. "And you were taking the _pericote_ no matter what you say."

_I _hate_ kids,_ Arthur thought, _and everyone knows it. What was he _thinking_, leaving a mouse-timid child with me?_ He sighed. "Fine," he said in disgust. He glanced at his watch. "Probably night, still, where they are. I'll try Cheechoo in a few hours. Find the kid something to do until then."

—

Arthur could not reach the Cheechoo family.

He'd called several times throughout the day, and every day for a week straight.

The most useful reply he'd received was that they were unavailable. Not one of their associates was willing to tell him _when_ they'd be available. He'd tried leaving messages, but to no avail. The people he'd spoken to seemed distracted at best, downright hostile at worst.

He might have thought he was being given the runaround, but could not imagine a reason for it. These people were usually very friendly, even to him.

Even his rare visitors were mystified by the problem. None had better luck contacting the family; it seemed to become more difficult with every attempt. He was not the only one noticing hostility in these communications.

And nobody could come up with anyone better to take the boy off his hands.

The child had kept out of his way the entire time, and did not appear to suffer from lack of attention. Arthur's projects were another matter. After the third one failed from his neglect, he recognized that trying to get rid of the kid was becoming more disruptive than letting him stay might be.

He began to give Doyle simple tasks, general labor, necessary yet mundane, to give the scientist and Andres more time to their own work.

Andres, for his part, tried to coax the boy, but Doyle seemed to prefer his solitude, so neither paid him much attention.

And neither had any idea how much attention the child paid to them.

**

* * *

On the subject of revisions:**

**Now that I'm working on my own site, I plan to make further revisions to some of the chapters.  
Not to the story itself, this time. Just to some of the author notes.**

**See, I figure on taking some of my explanations of various "theories" (those that I plan to salvage for my original fic) off the posted story and putting them in a general "theories" section on my site.  
Then I can just refer to them within the fanfic (visit such-and-such page for more on how I want to develop thus-and-such notion in my original fiction), and cut down the note size and word count in the posted story.  
I can think of more than a few chapters that need such editing.**

**If you don't care about the theories, it cleans up the chapter size and word count.  
If you are, you should be able to click to my site from my profile page, even if you aren't signed in.  
If not, anonymous reviews are enabled, so drop me a line if you need to.**

**Please visit, please click on ads, and if you do online shopping, please try the uPromise guest shopping link.  
It should all be explained on my site, and it will all help contribute to my student loan, at no cost to you...  
Except the online shopping, of course. Make that no **_**extra**_** cost besides what you would have spent, anyway.**

**But this might be considered a sort of minor edit; it should not delay me (much) in writing future chapters.  
Homework, on the other hand...**


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